


Birds Fly in Different Directions

by Jinmukang



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Young Justice (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Batfam is emotionally constipated but they still love each other, Batfamily Shenanigans, Career Ending Injuries, Court of Owls, Dick gets amnesia, Fix-It, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Tom King can go screw himself, batcat is on downlow but I'll hint to it every so often, batfam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-07 06:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20305078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinmukang/pseuds/Jinmukang
Summary: "Well, you could have moved back to Blüdhaven and changed your name to Ric, cutting all ties from your family and friends, becoming a taxi driver and begin having meaningless sex with two dimensional women," Jason says, lifting his feet onto the coffee table but quickly putting them back down when Alfred gives him a narrowed look."That sounds like a shitty comic plotline," Dick replies, grinning.Bruce sighs and Tim lifts a hand to his lips, hiding a small chuckle. "Language, Dick."





	1. Bleeding out for you

**Author's Note:**

> Am I salty over Nightwing comics? DC Comics in general? Yes. Yes I am.
> 
> Here, I'll pick and choose what canon is bullshit and what canon is acceptable to make a fun, in character, and angsty story with Dick still being shot. Because. Like. Amnesia stories are fun if done right. Idk, wrote this on a whim, curious of what people would think of it! 
> 
> Warnings: read the tags. Medical inaccuracies because I'm a meager fan fic writer who wants to focus more on the angst and family of these assholes than the medical side of things.

In the end, Bruce, _Batman_, was useless. Useless. He's felt useless many times but not quite like this. No, nothing like this. 

Nothing like this. 

Because this… this isn't something he could give _what if's_ about, couldn't prepare himself. He doesn't have contingency plans or anything even close to one, and if he did it would have thrown out the window the second Nightwing's face relaxed and head jolted and hand froze mid air in one of his constant gestures. 

Nightwing likes to talk with his hands, and watching one of those hands suddenly go limp mid quip made Bruce want to keel over and lose any lunch Alfred had previously forced down his throat. 

There wasn't a bang. No flash. He could hardly even think about _what_ happened because one second Nightwing, Dick, his _son_ is standing there making jokes about "Napkin Man" and the next he's knocked to the side like someone threw an invisible punch at him. Bruce would have thought it was an invisible punch, that's how still his brain became in that moment, but then he noticed the blood. 

Jesus.

The _blood_. 

He hears screaming, and he's surprised to find it's his own as he drops to his knees, hands reaching out, afraid to touch afraid to feel afraid to admit afraid afraid afraid. The blood. So much of it. Chunks. Gushing red, pooling, and Bruce has seen wounds like this many times, ranging all the way since the first two murders he's ever seen, his own parents. 

Gunshot. 

In the head. 

He can't think, can only look as Dick's eyes remain wide open behind the mask, can only watch as red pools out from a hole at the side of his head, dripping and oozing down his sons face, hair, skin, making everything slick and dark.

Looking back at it, if Jim Gordon wasn't there, Dick would have died.

But Dick didn't die. Bruce thought he had, but then the paramedics rush onto the roof, past the bat signal, and pile around the body of Nightwing without even stopping to think about what was happening, about who they were helping. 

How much time passed? Bruce doesn't know, in a blink of an eye, one of the most important people in his life is dying on the ground and the next Bruce is watching as they load his body onto a gurney as he stands back, staring at his hands, dripping with red drops, Jim's hand around his shoulders. 

"Jim-" he croaks as Dick is being whisked away. He wants to follow, but he already knows there's no way in hell a trained medical professional would let someone travel in the back of a Gotham ambulance with such an injured patient. 

"Don't you fucking dare say anything," Jim hisses, "what's important is his life, not his identity. We'll figure out the fallout later."

And Bruce stops for a second, his brain struggling to understand, and then it clicks. 

"No," he says, shakes his head, forcing himself to wipe his hands on his pants, wipe away the red, "No, Jim," he looks at the man whose stood by his side longer than anyone, excepting Alfred of course. 

He thought Bruce would rather Dick die than reveal his identity to the only people who have a chance of helping.

"Thank you."

-o-o-o-o-

His thumb is resting above his phone. He's already texted Tim, without even thinking about it really. Tim is his rock, he doesn't always show it, but Tim is always someone Bruce trusts. It was so simple to pull out a burner phone from one of his many compartments of his belt and type in area code, number, a string of letters, send. 

He didn't even think that he sent "Dick's been shot" until his phone started ringing a few seconds later. 

Tim sounds close to histarics. His business with the recently reformed Young Justice has kept him busy beyond busy, hardly even having time to keep up his duties as CEO of Wayne Industries. Bruce didn't mind, he sometimes pretended he did but he really doesn't. Tim looks happy with Bart, Connor, Cassie, and three new teens Bruce doesn't recognize, and that's all that really mattered to him. He's been harsh on Tim, mostly because he has such a brilliant mind that he worries about it going towards it going to nothing, but he keeps reminding himself that Tim is happy, for once in his career as Robin, or Red Robin, or back to Robin. Tim's not often happy. 

He hates to crush that happiness with a vague, not very well planned out text. 

And he's supposed to be the most collected and smart guy in the world. 

Dick… His children do this to him.

The sounds of yelling and car horns fills the other side of the line and Bruce instantly knows Tim's in the middle of a fight. A battle. With who? He doesn't know. Could be anyone, last Bruce checked Tim was in Metropolis, which, a _lot_ can happen in Metropolis. 

"_Dick's been shot_?!" Tim demands and Bruce wants to groan and take that single text back, word it different, maybe just tell Tim to text him when he's free, but he can't. 

Can't even groan, there's other family members of the sick and injured in the waiting room he's been placed in, cowl and all, and he doesn't want to disturb them. At first, he had tried to follow the doctors and nurses into the OR when he finally arrived, but the receptionist and other nurses refused. One even said: "I don't give a fuck if you're Batman, you're waiting like all the other family members and you won't get in the way."

"His life depends on you waiting more than you think," she said after, when he finally and grudgingly sat down in one of the stiff chairs in the waiting room. There was a surprising amount of people there, but considering the crime rate in Gotham, it was actually a rather slow night until Nightwing was wheeled in. 

He was angry at first, hands shaking, nerves… well, nerves shot. But now… now he feels a kinship with them all.

He knows how they're feeling. Waiting for a doctor to walk out and tell them how much of a chance their son, mother, daughter, cousin, best friend has. Everyone is so deep in grief and worry that only a few of them even noticed that Batman was in the same room as them, and the ones who did notice only looked shocked and scared for a second before quickly turning away, respectfully almost, knowing that if Batman was at a hospital waiting room… a hero is close to falling. 

Respect. Mutual respect. If Tim was here and feeling like joking, he'd say "waiting room respect". He's always adding that word to the end of nouns now, it's quite a personality trait that Bruce doesn't know where he's picked up, but he's not complaining, if anything, it's made him smile an invisible fraction more many times.

"Yes," he replies instead, "I need you back in Gotham, asap."

It's gut wrenching how calm he can keep his voice when the pride of his life is probably dead right now. 

"_B- I- is he okay_?!" There's the sound of an explosion and Tim curses, static filling the line for just a second before Tim's back on the line.

"I don't know. Nightwing's… he might not… he's been shot in the head."

Tim is silent. A beat. A woman across the room gives him a horrified look and quickly dives back to the phone in her hand, she was already crying before but now her shoulders shake just a bit more. 

Damn. He can't... He can't do this here.

"He's in the best hands," Bruce continues, barely above a whisper now, less helplessly curious ears. "Just… when you're all done wherever you are, get back as soon as you can."

"_Okay_," Tim says, voice soft. _Scared_. 

There's another explosion and Bruce hangs up the phone before either of them can say more. He sets the phone down, his chest hurting, and leans forward, his face going into his hands. A moment of weakness, in front of civilians no less, but no one comments on it. 

Sometimes there's good on Gotham, and it's when they're all suffering together.

Waiting room respect. Bruce almost laughs from the hopelessness of it all.

-o-o-o-o-

A doctor enters the room about an hour later. It's not for Bruce. With his burner phone alone he has hacked the internet of the hospital, and he knows for a fact that the doctor in charge of Dick's operation is Doctor Roseina Sanchez, a woman who started her career in Mexico, married and moved to America with her wife, and continued her career in Gotham. She's the best in her field, worked a long way up a ladder filled with racist, sexiest, and homophobic assholes, but her numbers and successes speaks for itself. She's the reason thousands of Gothamites are still alive today, her team is remarkable, top of their classes, and she's extremely trustworthy. 

Batman himself has seen her used as a witness to convict people he catches in court. She's brutally honest, and her moral compass is set and locked in the best direction. He won't have to worry about her. And if anyone has a chance of saving his son, it's her.

The doctor that walks in is a man in his late forties. The family he ushers away is not for Dick. They're for a young woman who was stabbed earlier that night by a mugging. 

A failure on his part. He should have prevented that. If Alfred were here, he would smack him aside the head and tell him that he was with Nightwing on the other side of town stopping some zombie mummies and there was nothing he could do.

He still feels guilty. He can almost hear Jason snarking that feeling guilty is Bruce's job. 

Sometimes… it really does seem to be the case. 

He sighs, his back is starting to ache from his constant slumping forward. He set the phone aside, deciding it would be better if he were to wait to tell everyone else. Tim was panicked enough and he's already slipped names during the conversation in front of already frazzled civilians, Bruce doesn't know how he'll be able to handle the phone calls with Damian and Jason at this moment. Cass will be easier. Duke won't react badly at all, maybe sympathetically, but it's not like he's known Dick long enough to truly create a sibling-esque relationship. Alfred probably already knows, he was managing the computer at the time. If not, Barbara would have told him, she always knows what's going on with Dick. And of not her, then her father. Bruce isn't sure, but he's almost positive Jim knows who he is, who Bruce Wayne is, and Bruce doubts the man will keep silent and not tell the butler his surrogate grandson is at death's door. He's a cop, cops tell things to families of victims. It's his job. 

And he's a good friend. 

Good friends do that too.

He wants to rip off his cowl and cry. The urge is so strong. His suit seems to be sticking to him, the edges of the mask rubbing his skin along his cheekbones raw. It makes him wonder just how long he's been in the suit, how long Dick's been in surgery. The suit is designed more for safety than comfort. There has been many instances after long nights or even weeks with the league without taking off the cowl has caused scabs to form under his eyes, making his black bags more prominent. Too many nights Alfred has lectured him about him taking care of himself while rubbing lotion and ointments onto his cheeks and other parts of Bruce's body that gets rubbed too much while in the suit for too long. 

It's been a very long night. He's so close to losing all control of his emotions, so close to the dam bursting because he can't do this. He can't lose another kid. Jason was hard enough. Damian was hard enough. The time he thought he lost Tim was hard enough. Dick… he's seen Dick die before but Lex Luthor revived him minutes after he killed him. If Dick dies here… the Lazarus Pit would be his only hope, but Batman's not that sure how it would fix head trauma, and even then, he would never use the Lazarus Pit to bring someone back. Jason is an example of why that's a bad idea.

Doesn't stop him from thinking about it. 

He can't lose Dick. He's had his smiling face, his pitiful puns, his lively expressions for too long in his life. He doesn't have favorites, how he gets along with his children depends on how disappointed he is in them or they in him, never on love. He loves them all equally, even the new additions. All of his children are convinced that Dick is his favorite, Dick isn't his favorite… he's just helplessly attached. 

He looks up at the time and would swear if he wasn't in his suit. It's almost seven in the morning. Bruce Wayne should be getting up, should be dressing in his suit and preparing for a conference call at 8am. Dick would be still asleep in his room until noon, and when he finally got up he'd interrupt the dragging meeting and somehow convince the others that the meeting is over. They'll go out to lunch, and then he'll wish his son good luck on his ride back to Blüdhaven, thank him for helping him that weekend. 

He'll have to call Lucius. He won't be able to attend the meeting. 

"Mr Batman?" Comes a small voice and he shoots his head over in that direction. Hope shatters like a broken mirror when he sees a nurse he doesn't recognize—meaning he's not apart of the team saving his son, he knows every face when it comes to that. "We need to talk, somewhere more private if you would prefer."

"Any news on—"

"He's not out of surgery yet," the nurse says quickly, shooting nervous glances towards the other families. Batman can tell it's not a malicious nervous, but one of the hospital trying not to treat Batman and Nightwing like they are more important than other patients. "We would just like to… make this as easy for you and him as possible. Do you want to talk here or somewhere private?" 

Bruce shuts his mouth, glances at the clock, and sighs. "Yes," he says, standing up. He isn't quite sure what they would want to talk with him about, it could be anything at this point, but from the research he's done on the hospital and their staff… he knows that their main goal is Dick's health and whatever they need to talk about must be important. "Privately, please."

The nurse nods, giving a small smile at the other waiting families as they watch them go. Batman and the nurse walk out of the room, away from the surgical unit, and into an elevator. They go up a few floors and Bruce finds himself in quiet hallways with empty rooms. Office rooms. 

The nurse slips into one and Bruce follows him, checking the corners and ceiling and he's surprised to find not a single camera or recording device of any kind. He'll have to check the blueprints later to be sure.

The nurse reaches towards a table and gives him a clipboard and pen. 

"We'd… ask if you write down what happened on these. The top's for the doctors and the doctors only, the bottom one is for the records. One for Nightwing, the other of Richard John Grayson."

Bruce tenses slightly and the nurse pales a fraction but Bruce just sighs, forcing the tension to leave him. He knew this would happen. If Nightwing were shot in the chest, or legs, or arms, anywhere below the neck, his identity could be saved, but he was shot in the head. That would involve shaving hair and checking eyes and… removing the mask. Of course they'll find out. They probably found out hours ago. He takes off his cowl, deciding it useless for the minute, and rubs the bridge of his nose. He feels nauseous. 

"Would you like a chair Bat- Mr Wayne?" 

"Bruce is fine, and yes…" he says, his stomach rolling. 

The nurse leads him to a leather chair placed in the corner room next to a fake, plastic tree and he sits down, rubbing his cheeks and forcing himself to not show too much emotion in front of this nurse. Gotham is so used to Batman being stoik and unfeeling and strong. If the first time the Justice League saw Bruce Wayne show emotion almost gave them a heart attack, a Gothamite… it will be worse. Thankfully, nurses and doctors are used to tears and worries, but that doesn't mean Bruce will completely let it all loose. 

"Take your time, Bruce…" the nurse says, his voice soft. "We're doing everything we can for Richard. We suggest you get this filled out, take your time, and hand it to the receptionist. Then… we're hoping you will go home, clean up, and get dressed in something less…"

Less Batman. They want him here as Bruce Wayne. Not Batman. Understandable. 

Nightwing… if… _when_ Dick survives, he'll be here for a terribly long time recovering, and then he'll have to keep coming back for check ups and such. It would be easier for Bruce Wayne to be with Dick Grayson than it would be for Batman to be with Nightwing. The news will eat up the story of a billionaire being with his son after a terrible mugging injury, the world will blow up if the story of a caped crusader visits his former sidekick after a freak attack. This will be easier for Dick. Easier for Bruce. 

Easier still will be hard. Bruce doesn't want to leave. What if… what if something happens while he's gone? 

"If you give us a number we can contact you with," the nurse says as if reading his mind, "we can send you updates."

"I understand," Bruce says, "thank you."

The nurses face screws up slightly like he wasn't expecting any gratitude from Gotham's reclusive vigilante. Bruce simply turns down, clicks the pen, and starts writing. The nurse leaves a few seconds later.

-o-o-o-o-

Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson went to a late night party with some family friends. While walking to the car after the party ended, they were mugged. A man came up to them and pointed his gun at Dick, demanding they drop their wallets. Bruce made a move forward to protect Dick, but that only startled the mugger and he went trigger happy, shooting Dick in anxious fear.

That's the story. Simple. Holes. Bruce is too tired to think much more into it, but it's okay. Stories from victims are usually all over the place, the brain struggles to remember trauma quite frequently, imagination making up for the rest. It will do. Bruce's lawyers are good enough to keep the story believable if the mysterious mugger is ever found. 

In reality, if the "mugger" is found, they'll be found by Batman, and they'll be in the hospital before they're in a holding cell. Bruce will make sure if that. 

He hands the clipboard to the receptionist and quickly leaves the building. It's bright out. 7:48am. He hasn't called Lucius. 

He takes the path he has the least chances of being seen, the roofs, and he grapples away towards an empty alleyway, his brain going more and more quiet the further he gets from the hospital. Finally, he presses a hidden button on one of his gauntlets, and a few minutes later the Batmobile pulls up besides him and opens the door. He jumps in, trying not to think that Dick is so deep in his life that he named the car. Instead, he just drives, and he's back in the cave by the time 8am shows it's face. 

-o-o-o-o-

Alfred knows. He didn't expect anything else. It's confirmation that Jim knows. Especially since the first thing Alfred told him when he stumbled out of the car was "Commissioner Gordon rang."

Alfred looks tired, worn, _his_ _age_. Eyes rimmed red, not like he's cried, but like he's very close to. Alfred has gone through so much shit because of Batman, it's only a matter of time that enough is enough. The possible death of Bruce Wayne's first ward might just be enough to push him over the edge. 

But for now, he looks cold, mostly composed, so much so that it would be only Bruce noticing this about him. The kids all pride themselves on being able to read Batman, but none of them have been able to crack Alfred quite yet, Bruce isn't even that confident on it. 

"Any news, sir?" Alfred asks.

"None. Still in surgery," Bruce replies, his voice worn like an abandoned building. Wrong. Empty. Even to himself, he feels like he should sound more broken, more emotional, but he… he just feels numb. "I'm heading back as Bruce Wayne in a few minutes.

"I recommend checking your personal phone," Alfred says, "Master Damian suspects something is wrong, though not the exact nature of the situation. I'll leave it to you."

"Yes… Thank you Alfred."

Leave it to Alfred to stick Bruce with the telling Damian the only man he looks up to is on his deathbed bit. Alfred doesn't do the dirty work. 

Bruce starts to remove the suit as Alfred lays some casual wear next to him. It's a routine they have memorized. No suit upstairs. Must change in the cave. 

"Has Tim called?" Bruce asks, slipping on his shirt.

Alfred sighs. "He texted the whole family that Dick's in the hospital. Nothing else, I assume he's catching the first plane to Gotham."

"So that's how Damian knows… any other kids try to reply?"

"Only Miss Selina."

Bruce stops. "He's told _everyone_?"

Alfred grunts in affirmative and Bruce wants to groan. "Must have been a reckless decision he didn't think into enough."

Alfred says it like he knows that Bruce did the same thing _to_ Tim. 

Bruce needs to apologise. For now, though, he has to go upstairs and brave his cellphone. 

Alfred tells him that he'll prepare the car to take them both back to the hospital and Bruce makes his way upstairs to the master bedroom. It's neat, clean as always. It's not like he actually uses it that often anyways. He doesn't even really consider it _his_. It's just a place to rest his head when Alfred benches him. On the nightstand by the bed is a bright light coming from his phone announcing an incoming call. He steps across the carpet and picks up the device, disconnecting it from its charger cord, and looking at the caller ID. 

Damian. 

He doesn't answer it quick enough, and a little notification at the top of his phone announces that it's the fifth missed call. Three from Dames, one from Barbara, and a surprising one from Duke. He has a list of text messages, most from Damian, some from Cass, a single "keep goldie alive till i get there or ill kill you" from Jay, some from Selina, one from Kate (though it's a long, worried paragraph that could be counted as ten), Steph and Barbara as well.

He sighs and his phone starts vibrating again, showing Damian's caller ID. He slumps down on his bed, rubbing his forehead and trying to get control over himself. Trust Dick to make everyone worried about him. Trust Bruce to let him get hurt. 

He counts the vibrations in his hand, taking deep breaths, and on the last possible ring he takes a deep breath, exhales, and answers the call.

"Damain-"

"_Father, I demand to know what happened and why you have been ignoring my calls_."

"I wasn't ignoring you, I just got home."

"_With Grayson_?" 

Bruce tightens his grip on the phone. Deep breath. Exhale. 

"Dames… Dick is really… hurt."

His voice chokes without his permission and Damian remains silent for a second, clearly shocked. Bruce curses himself for his weakness. Or for his habit of never showing it. It always throws people off, even his own kids. It makes him feel like he's emotionless, makes him feel like his kids think he's emotionless. 

But showing fear… that scares him more.

"_How… how hurt? Will he be okay_?"

Bruce rubs the bridge of his nose, again. "He's still in surgery. But he'll be fine."

"_But you don't know if he is now_," Damian demands, and when Bruce takes a second too long to reply he plows on, "_so you don't **know** if he'll be fine_."

"Damian."

"_Expect me back in Gotham soon, I left Kent's the second Drake sent that horribly incompetent message_."

Bruce has almost forgot that Damian was back at the Kent's farm. Jon and Damian has been getting along rather… surprisingly well lately. It makes him proud and excited beyond relief to know that Damian finally has a friend to do stuff with in and outside of the cape, kind of like what Dick had with Roy and Wally, or Tim with Connor. Jason was less fortunate making friends, mostly because while he calls Tim the replacement, everyone else forced that word onto him so he was very much alone and barely tolerated when Bruce sent him to the Teen Titans. Cass has Stephanie which is very good. Duke is new and he's struggling to trust people, but Bruce is sure that if he tries to socialize a bit more he'll start making more friends. 

But for now, Damian was his biggest worry. So he didn't hesitate to say yes when Clark offered to take Damian to Kansas for the weekend. Bruce has been expressing some worry over Damian being cooped up in the city, and they both thought that getting him out into the open air and have him spend time with a good friend and two pairs of wonderful, loving adults would do Damian some good. 

That's ruined now. After this, Damian will never leave Dick's side willingly.

"How are you getting back?" Bruce asks, "you're not taking an airplane alone, are you?"

"_Of course not father. Superman is faster than a plane_."

So Bruce can expect Damian _and_ Clark to be back here by lunch. Joy. Though, he does wish a little bit that he can get a picture of Damian willingly being carried by Superman across America. Sadly, that would make Damian's already bad mood worse. 

"Okay, just be careful," Bruce says.

"_Tt. Keep me updated_," Damian replies before he ends the call. 

Bruce is about to check the rest of his text messages and determine who's all also heading over to the manor, but then there's a knock on the bedroom door. 

"Come in, Alfred," Bruce replies automatically. 

"It's, uh, Duke actually. Can I still come in?"

Bruce sets his phone down and walks towards the door, sighing. He's tired, so he'll be doing _that_ a lot. He opens the door and sure enough, none other than Duke Thomas is standing there, shifting his feet nervously. 

"You should be at school," Bruce says, not harshly, just curious. 

Duke nods. "I stayed home after Tim texted and Alfred told me what happened. I tried to call you but I figured your phone was home. Um… are you okay?" 

Bruce studies the newest addition to the family. Duke is different from the rest of his kids. He considers Duke his son as much as he does Dick or Cass, but Duke came into the family in his late teens, he's already had someone raise him, and unlike most of his kids Duke loved those someone's. He doesn't need a new dad, just a guardian until he's 18 and he can live out on his own. Not like Bruce would let him live out on his own until he knows Duke can handle himself and his metahuman powers. 

Duke is looking at him oddly, and Bruce realizes it's because he's expecting an answer. Bruce clears his throat and opens the door wider, inviting Duke in. Duke's eyes widen a little and Bruce can't help but chuckle a little at it. Finally, a kid who understood personal boundaries like a _bedroom_. Dick, Damian, Jason, Cass, and Tim never understood those boundaries, hell, Alfred doesn't either. Granted, they respect those boundaries in varying degrees, but more often or not Bruce's privacy is usually destroyed by one of his boys bursting in to give hugs, tattle, insult, or just sit in the corner and play on their phone. Cass at least looks apologetic when she walks in and sits down on his bed, reading a book, but Bruce never minds. 

Duke, so far, is the only one to actually knock before coming in. What a good kid. It's not necessary at this point, but it's highly appreciated.

His sits down on his bed and pats the space next to him. Duke hesitantly sits down next to him. 

"How much do you know?" He asks and Duke looks down at the carpet, running his toes through the shaggy fibers. 

"Dick's been shot, Alfred says in… the head."

Bruce sighs. "Dick's was still in surgery when I left. Since I haven't gotten any messages from the hospital yet, I can only assume Dick is still in surgery." _Still alive_. 

Gunshot wound to the head victims have small chances of surviving, and even smaller chances of surviving without any new disabilities. If- _when_ Dick recovers from surgery, he could be looking at a loss of movement, concentration, memory, the ability to function on his own… the brain is the most important organ and if anything happens to it, it can change the entire lifestyle of the person it belongs to. It's difficult to predict what kind of therapies and lifestyle changes Dick will have to go through once he recovers, impossible really. No two cases of a survivor of a bullet to the brain is the same. Never the same. Dick will never be the same.

"I'm sorry," Duke says quietly. 

Dick… will never…

With that thought, all hopes of keeping composed is shattered. He feels horrible, so horrible as he breaks down right in front of Duke, but he can't help it. Everything hurts. He curls up slightly, placing his pointer and thumb of one hand on either side of his nose to try to staunch the tear flow before it begins and runs his other hand through his hair. 

"It's okay, Bruce," Duke says, sounding worried, a hesitant hand is placed on his back. "It will be okay…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: yes I've changed all the titles to be imagine dragons lyrics
> 
> I'm committing. If I name the fic after birds then I'm naming the chapters after other songs.
> 
> Kinda like how if Bruce goes by "Batman" then everything else has to be bat themed. Sorry but thems the rules


	2. Who knows how long I've been awake now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -basically, because I hate current canon so much, a lot of this fic is going to be pick and choose from other bits of canon. A lot of stuff will pretty much be from the previous reboots or even taken from the DC animated universe. Things will be explained as I go so don't worry. Just know that some things are different from Rebirth.
> 
> With those notes aside, I am BLOWN away by the love on the first chapter ALONE. Every time I saw another comment saying you wanted more just,,, ah, I love it. Though, that makes it a bit nerve wracking to post this next chapter, not that it's bad, I actually really like this chapter, it's just I'm hoping I don't dissapoint!
> 
> Warnings: SPOILER IN WARNINGS read tags, comas.

After Bruce's small breakdown with Duke, he sent the kid awkwardly out of him room so he could finish getting ready. It's not like he's ungrateful towards Duke, but by the time the tears stopped threatening to fall Duke looked slightly pale and nervous. Again, it looks like his own children don't expect him to break down like a normal human being, and it stings a little bit, but he supposes he hasn't exactly been trying to be more open and expressive.

Being emotionless hurts less.

So, he took a final deep breath and suggested Duke head downstairs and take Titus and Ace for a walk and see if Alfred the Cat wants to go outside. Duke nodded way too thankfully and practically ran out of the room.

Ouch.

Now, pushing _that_ to the back of his mind, he heads towards his shower and strips himself of the clothes Alfred gave him earlier, placing his phone on the counter nearby and turning the ringtone and notification volume all the way up.

He just planned to wash the sweat and grime from a long night at Gotham, but then suddenly scrubbing his skin became so much more urgent. He isn't panicking, or at least he doesn't think he is, he certainly feels like he's in a right mind considering, but when he looks down at his bare arms all he can see is red, red dripping down in the replacement of water and he knows in this instant that even if Dick recovers… Bruce never will. He watches the water dripping off his arms, hardly even noticing the warm drops falling onto his face and the steam rising.

For a second, his mind goes back to the first year Dick was Robin. At first… it was all fun and games, wasn't it? Robin was always smiling, grinning, throwing jokes and Batman would come in and take down the confused and frazzled criminals quite easily. It was a game, a game to see how much they could throw off a bad guy's thought process with a child dressed in bright colors and an even brighter smile. Batman loved that smile so much that he didn't even think about how devastatingly _dangerous_ it was until Two Face decided to make a move in Gotham.

The first thing Bruce did was bench Robin, and Robin was understandably pissed, it was the first real glance he got at Dick Grayson's true temper. Sure, Dick had been angry at Bruce before, but never quite like that.

_"I'm not a sidekick! I'm your partner! You can't just **bench** me! I can help!"_

_"You're a **child**."_

He should have known Robin would continue the investigation on his own. He shouldn't have been surprised when Robin showed up on that rooftop to save that baby even if it turned out that the baby was fake and was instrumental in capturing both of them in the end.

Hearing Two-Face manipulate Robin into playing his sick game while he could do nothing but try to slip out of the ropes binding him… he thought that was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

But then the hood was ripped from his head and seeing Robin's guilt at watching the judge fall to his death and being scolded by the enemy that he should have chosen his words better… watching as that guilt turned into panic and fear as Two-Face hit him just to make Batman watch… watching as the bat was pulled out and watching watching watching as he poured acid on his own wrists and Robin slowly lost consciousness in the most agonizing way possible, bones snapping and blood spilling from his nose and other cuts… that was the hardest thing Bruce ever had to do. Watch. Hope. Frantically command himself to get there on time.

He thankfully got there on time, and he didn't even notice the festering blisters on his wrists until after Leslie was finished screaming at him, until after Dick was declared _fine_ and predicted to have a full recovery with no complications.

That's what made it real for him, it was no longer a game, it was a war that he introduced a _child_ to. It is a war that he's introduced _multiple children_ to, and he never stops to think about it until one of them are hurt, or dead.

His phone ringing brings him out of his thoughts. He blinks and the red on his arms returns to the clear water it always was. For a second, he angrily wishes the water was still running red, that way he'd have proof that a child's blood was rinsing off his hands, but the phone continuing to ring drags him away from those morbid thoughts. He turns the water off and walks over to his phone, wiping his hands on a towel before wrapping it around his waist.

Barbara. Interesting, though not unexpected. It was only a matter of time before Barbara called him to scream at him for being an ass.

He lifts his phone to his cheek after accepting the call and he expects the screaming to begin the moment he says "yes?"

It doesn't. Barbara has two modes while calling him, angry and pissed off, or calm and calculating. He didn't expect the second mode.

_"I hacked the hospital's system,"_ she says almost monotonous. While a ping of worry springs up for the young woman, but he also can't help but smile. He expects nothing less from the former Oracle. She's an amazing hacker, enough so that Tim and her have a small rivalry, occasionally bragging to each other about the next big firewall they broke though.

_"I just hacked the Pentagon, get on my level brat."_

_"Bitch please, I hacked the Justice League!"_

_"And what makes you think I haven't?"_

Bruce is still trying to find evidence of either of them doing so.

For a moment, he's afraid to ask what Barbara found. With his burner phone, the most he could do was get the names and faces of the team working on his son. Barbara is skilled enough to get every nitty gritty detail she needs as long as it connects to the internet. For all Bruce knows, she's probably even hacked into the cameras inside the operation room.

_"They just updated Dick's status,"_ Barbara continues, and a slight tremor in her voice is hurriedly disguised by a small fake cough.

Bruce falls backwards onto the toilet seat, reminding himself to breathe. Dick is dead… isn't he? He's dead. He died. God, Bruce can't do this. He can't _do_ this. He can't-

_"Bruce- Bruce, Dick is alive, breathe,"_ Bab's voice yells in his ear and he takes a deep breath, not even realizing that he was hyperventilating. He takes a few more, latching onto those words, clutching them like a lifeline.

"Dick's alive?"

_"Yes,"_ Barbara says, sounding relieved. Bruce feels bad for scaring her, but at the same time the confirmation that Dick is alive makes him want to jump for joy and maybe dance a little. Instead, he clears his throat.

"His condition?"

This is where Barbara sighs sadly. _"Bruce… he's alive. He's in the ICU, but Bruce... Bruce he's in a coma."_

That's when Bruce's world goes still, silent, cold. A small note sings in his ear notifying him of a text and he quickly thanks Barbara for telling him before hanging up before he can break again. He looks down at his phone and his hands shake slightly by the number he recognizes as belonging to the hospital.

_Richard is out of surgery. Come quickly, there's a lot to talk about. -Doctor Sanchez_

-o-o-o-o-

The drive back to the hospital is a blur. He remembers telling Alfred that he'll drive himself and that he would appreciate it if Alfred and Duke stayed and waited for Clark and Damian. Alfred didn't argue, probably because Bruce at this point gave up on trying to look calm.

He called Jim quickly on the way to the hospital and quickly rattled a thankfully small group of names, telling Jim that those people saw Batman at the hospital and he would appreciate it if Jim would talk to them about it and warn them Batman himself will pay them a visit later. Jim didn't argue, probably because Bruce at this point gave up at trying to _sound_ calm.

When he entered the hospital, he saw that the time was 9am, and Lucius was calling him. He didn't answer. He sent it straight to voicemail. Lucius will be pissed, but hopefully he'll understand when Bruce can explain.

He remembers Doctor Sanchez cornering him before he can even walk up to the front desk. Her eyes were dark, dim, almost sad but the small smile on her face told him not all the news was bad. Bruce already knew, of course, before she even started explaining that Dick fell into a coma and the various procedures they did, but he lets her talk anyway. Apparently, Dick was lucky. _Lucky_. Like the fact that if the bullet rammed into his skull a fraction of a millisecond in any other direction than where it went Dick would still be fighting for his life, was the "It could be worse!"

No, no Dick is lucky that he's fighting to _wake up_. His life is saved. Out of the red. The worst is done. Yes. Dick is so very lucky to have been shot in the head at the perfect angle and degree so he wouldn't die, just sleep for an unknown amount of time.

Silver linings.

Finally, after much discussion, they stop just outside Dick's door in the ICU. He's told Dick is going to be kept here at least a week so they can make sure that there will be no future complications with Dick's health. He's thankful for their extra care, but his brain is too occupied to thank her before she squeezes his shoulder gently then walks down the hall, leaving Bruce to be the one to make the first move to go inside.

It's not like Dick would be inviting him in.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He's faced a lot of evil. Hell, Joker and Scarecrow were nightmares on their own. With their venoms, toxins, and general evil doings, Bruce has faced his deepest fears many, _many_ times, and it's only now that seeing his parents die, watching useless as his children are tortured and killed, becoming the thing he fears most and being the one his children feel they need to fight… he realizes those are all nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to turning the door handle, his stomach twisting with it, and walking in to see a pale figure hooked up to so many machines that it's almost impossible to tell where Dick ended and the tubes began. In those old nightmares, he always wakes up or comes to realizing how unfounded they are. He's come to terms with his Parent's passing. He's resolved himself to make sure he always does his best to protect his kids, there's always something he can _do_ after those fears.

This… walking in… seeing his _son_ like this fills him with so much hopelessness it's all he can do to stumble in and slump into the cushioned chair placed beside and hold his hands out, unsure how to proceed. Where to put his hands.

There's no hair, no healthy cute hair, for him to place his hands.

He hasn't realized how often he has done that until this moment where he _can't_. He's done it with all his kids, as they lay sick in Leslie's clinic, as they whimper from bad dreams in their beds, when they're strapped down to a cot in the cave waiting for the fear toxin to fade, he's always reached forward and placed his hands in their black hair, some greasier or thicker than others, but the way his children always seemed to instantly relax into the palm of his hand, their face turning towards them, eyebrows loosening, humming in comfort.

Now… Bruce doesn't think he can even hold Dick's hand.

So, instead of looking at how pale Dick looks, at how swollen his bandaged head appears, at his closed eyes or still fingers or the multitude of tubes… Bruce brings his hands back towards himself, places his forehead in his grasp, and for the first time in a long time, he lets the tears escape, nothing to accompany him besides the gentle beeps of machines being more lively than his son.

-o-o-o-o-

_"Dick, what's wrong?" Bruce asks. The eleven year-old shoots him a glower before he sighs and sinks even further into his arms on the table, the dishes holding his dinner being pushed to the side. _

_ Dick mumbles something and Bruce fights off a sigh as Alfred lifts an amused eyebrow. Bruce wants to glare at the other man, but instead he takes a deep breath._

_"You're going to have to speak up, chum."_

_More mumbling._

_"Chum."_

_"I want to go on patrol with you," Dick says, practically hissing through his teeth, though it's not as threatening as the boy probably intended to be, the raspiness of a sore throat making the tone sound more pathetic and miserable than anything._

_Bruce sighs and glances at Alfred, putting as much begging as he could in in eyes. Unfortunately, Alfred became immune to any puppy eyes by the time Bruce turned fourteen. Alfred isn't even looking at him, smirking slightly as he refills Bruce's cup of water. **It's your problem Master Bruce,** he seems to say with his eyes alone._

_"You know you can't."_

_"Why not?!" Dick demands, pushing himself up from the table and glaring at Bruce. Bruce really wishes the kid would turn that glare on people who actually deserve it, not on a struggling in-over-his-head foster father._

_"You're sick."_

_"No-" Dick breaks off to cough into his sleeve for a few seconds, and once the fit passed he fixes his glare on his sleeve like it's betrayed him._

_"You're not coming tonight, Dick. Sit it out," Bruce says, trying to keep his tone gentle. Dick glowers again at him for a moment before he sinks back down onto the table, weakly lifting a hand to twirl his spoon in the chicken broth of his soup._

_Bruce feels kind of bad, and that random guilt that he shouldn't be feeling only grows when he hears the slight thump thump thumping of a socked foot tapping the carpeted floor with a seemingly never ending amount of energy. Out of all the kids he took in to be his ward, it had to be the one whose entire being was the definition of ADHD._

_Dick looks like a kicked puppy. A kicked puppy that Bruce is responsible for and he shouldn't even be considering making an exception to his no-sickness-on-patrol rule, even if it's just a sore throat and cough. He won't take him on patrol, even if Bruce isn't as immune to puppy eyes as Alfred is._

_But… there is something he can do. It spikes his anxiety but also... gives him some... excitement. Gotham can last one night without Batman, right? It's been a cold spell with the winter coming on, and Joker and all the other lunatics are in Arkham and all the gangs seem more concerned about their own sick kids and members than attack whoever is crazy enough to step foot outside as the cold winds barge with no restraint through the skyscrapers._

_Gotham can last one night; one cold, dreary, innocent night._

_"Okay," he says and Dick gives him this hopeful glance and Bruce almost melts. "Get on shoes."_

_Dick pumps his fists and springs over the table but Bruce grabs his arm before he can take off towards the grandfather clock. "Civilian shoes," he corrects, "and a warm coat."_

_There's a park in the middle of the city, it has nothing on a place like Central Park in New York, but during the holidays, one of the churches put up lights all in the trees and lamp posts. Bruce was raised Jewish, and he isn't sure about Dick but he doesn't believe the boy is quite sold on the idea of Santa Claus, but it's still quite enjoyable to look at the christmas lights._

_Dick has a blast, seemingly content to at least be outside with Bruce rather than stuck at the manor waiting for Batman to come home. Dick is still talking about the elephant shaped light decoration he saw in the park by the time they stop at a Starbucks to grab some hot chocolate. As Dick begins to talk with animation about Zitka and the other elephants in the circus, Bruce can't help but watch how his eyes glisten and smile widens with every word. He can't help but think about how lucky he is for this little brat._

_The next morning, Dick has a stuffy nose and Bruce comes down with a cough. However, it was entirely worth it to spend a quiet Gotham night with this new addition to what used to be his one man family and crusade._

-o-o-o-o-

A hand falls on his shoulder and Bruce blinks awake, the image of a smiling, ocean eyed boy disappearing to the storage of his memory. He thinks for a rather quick annoyed heartbeat that he doesn't deserve to be having a good dream right now, but the thought doesn't last long before he remembers _oh yeah_, there's a hand on his shoulder and he has no idea who it belongs to.

Careful of the fact that he's Bruce Wayne in the middle of a hospital with top notch security, he turns his head sleepily and is relieved and surprised to see Alfred looking down worriedly at him. Bruce is about to greet him, but the Alfred turns his gaze away slightly and Bruce follows it with his own until his eyes land on none other than Damian who's standing wide eyed in the doorway.

"Hey buddy," Bruce calls out and Damian startles slightly. The sight of his brother lying comatose must have thrown him off the loop, Bruce knows it threw himself off. "Do you want to come in?"

Damian stares at him for a moment before his eyes flicker back at Dick. He takes a deep breath, controlled and hardly noticeable, and walks inside towards a chair placed in the far corner of the room. His face turns into a scowl and he directs it to Bruce, it looks like Damian is purposely trying to not look at Dick now.

"I requested you keep me updated."

"I know, bud," Bruce says, a wave of guilt washing over him, "I had a lot on my mind and I forgot. I'm sorry."

"Tt." Damian huffed and crosses his arms.

"He's upset that he and Mr Clark arrived at the manor to find you already gone," Alfred puts in helpfully, his voice low and directed to only Bruce but Damian still huffs and pointingly glares at the wall.

"I'm not upset," he mumbles, "just disappointed."

Awkward silence falls over the trio and Bruce's gaze slides back to Dick without really even thinking about it. He wonders, for a second, what's going on in his head as he sleeps. Is he angry? Dick has a temper, probably the most bipolar kid he's ever seen, so much so that Bruce keeps considering asking Leslie if there's any medication Dick can take for that but at the same time Bruce knows if he talks to Dick about it, his eldest will blow up in anger. Bruce wouldn't be surprised that wherever Dick is right now he's seething with blame and fury… or maybe that's Bruce's guilt talking again. Dick never seems to be blameful when he gets hurt, no matter how much Bruce wishes he _would_ be.

Well, whatever the case, Bruce hopes that Dick is thinking _something_ right now, hopes that Dick can hear them through the haze of his body on sleep mode. The thought of Dick laying there, completely unaware of himself or the world, makes Bruce want to vomit.

Be it anger or forgiveness, Bruce will take anything, anything other than the state of his spirit being the same as his body.

"How is Master Dick fairing?" Alfred suddenly asks and Bruce is dragged from his depressing thoughts. He shifts his focus to Alfred and forces a half-hearted smile on his face.

"The doctor says the surgery was very successful with no complications," Bruce says.

Alfred hums but Damian only scoffs. "Besides the coma, of course."

Alfred shoots a scolding look at the thirteen year-old but Damian just huffs and turns away.

"Yes," Bruce says carefully, painfully aware that while Dick was bipolar, Damian was just constantly in a state of anger and defensiveness when confronted with anything, "but when he wakes up-"

"When, father," Damian shoots, "do you know when he'll wake up or is he as good as dead?"

"Master Damian!" Alfred says, shock in his voice. "That is a highly inappropriate thing to say at your brother's bedside, let alone in the hospital!"

"When will he wake up, father?" Damian continues, ignoring Alfred's scolding.

Bruce resists the urge to rub his face. Alfred shouldn't have brought Damian. Anyone other than Damian. Duke maybe, god even Jason would be more respectful than this, maybe making a dark joke or two, but he at least always treats the patient like they can hear him, showing frustration in his own way when he's _away_ from the bedside.

Yet at the same time, there's intense worry hiding behind the defences in Damian's eyes. Damian is scared. He probably doesn't understand quite what a coma is, he definitely never saw it while growing up with his mother. There: if someone fell, they died.

"It's up to Dick when he wakes up," Bruce says, trying his best to explain in a way that won't anger Damian even more.

Apparently, that's exactly the wrong thing to say, because the moment those words leave his mouth Damian shoots to his feet and stomps out the door, cheeks red like the colors he must be seeing. The door slams and Bruce almost flinches at the noise. Alfred sighs and moved to follow the boy, but Bruce grabs his sleeve.

"Let me," he says, and it surprises himself. He doesn't dwell on that, it shouldn't surprise himself to be a dad.

It's easier to leave Dick's room than it was to go in, he doesn't dwell on that either.

When he walks into the hallway there's no sign of Damian. Bruce doesn't think he would leave the hospital, but he could be anywhere inside the building at this point. When Damian gets overwhelmed, he either makes his movements big and offensive or he finds someplace to curl up and ignore the world, no in-between. So, honestly, since he didn't try to attack Bruce, he could be squeezing himself in the vents for all Bruce knew.

Instead of checking the vents quite yet, he walks down the hallway a bit more and he catches sight of a nurse poking her head inside a dark room, a soft yet worried look on her face. God, Damian better not be in another patient's room.

"Excuse me," Bruce says and she turns from the door to give him a wide eyed look.

"Is the boy who ran in here your son?" She asks.

Bruce resists a groan. "Most likely."

She pokes her head back in. "Hey, sweetie, your dad's here."

There's no response, but she opens the door wider and Bruce this time pokes his head in. Thankfully, there is no occupant in the room, only a small child squeezing himself in the back corner behind a plastic tree. Bruce thanks the nurse and walks in slowly. Damian doesn't react, which worries Bruce. The kid is still, his back against the wall and his legs pulled to his chest. His head is buried in his arms that are wrapped around his knees.

"Hey, bud," Bruce says and Damian doesn't acknowledge him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Damian mumbles stiffly.

Bruce scoots closer and kneels next to him, and after a second of hesitation, he places his hand of Damian's shoulder. "It's okay, D-"

"But it's not!" Damian snarls, snapping his head up and smacking Bruce's hand away. He's glaring daggers, Bruce is sure that if looks could kill Bruce would be in that bed instead of Dick. "It's _not_ okay!"

"What's bothering you kid, use your words," Bruce responds gently but Damian just looks more outraged, and Bruce wants to slap himself for saying something that _Dick_ always says.

_"Use your words, little D!"_

_"Shut up, Grayson."_

Bruce prepares himself for Damian to blow up at him, but suddenly Damain's shoulders slump and his eyes look a bit more wet. "It's... Not okay." He repeats, his voice sounding very much his age. He curls up tighter in himself and Bruce is reminded of another dark haired boy hiding in the library of the manor curled up in the very same way after a vicious nightmare, hugging himself close because his parents were no longer alive to do so.

Bruce pulls in Damian like he had done with Dick that night.

Damian makes a distressed noise but doesn't pull away, he just sits there stiffly until he slumps into Bruce's chest, hands crawling up to clutch at Bruce's shirt. Bruce places his chin on top of Damian's head.

"Why won't he wake up," Damian whispers and Bruce sighs, clutching the kid closer.

"He will when he's ready," Bruce says.

"But... that doesn't make any sense," Damian mumbles, voice sounding almost stuffy as if he's holding back wobbles, "if it were up to Grayson to wake up, he would have done so by now. Does… does he not wish to be with us?"

_Wish to be with **me**?_

Bruce stops and once again he wants to smack himself for saying the wrong thing _again_.

"No, buddy, no," he says, holding Damian just a bit closer. "I'm sure Dick wants nothing more than to wake up and see you, but he's really hurt and his body is very tired. You know how you get a cold and all you want to do is sleep?"

A second. Then a small "yes…"

"It's like that, kid. I _promise_ it has nothing to do with how much he wants to be with us, with you. In fact, I'm sure he's missing us both right now."

"He's asleep, he cannot be missing us."

Bruce chuckles. "They say people in comas can sometimes hear us, that's why we visit them."

"But… he's _asleep_-"

Damian sounds skeptical and confused, but at least it isn't the sadness and frustration from earlier. Bruce decides to not explain any further into comas to avoid confusing Domain even more or plain old saying the wrong thing. He wraps his arms around Damian's arms and hefts themselves both to their feet. Damian stumbles a second and Bruce goes to catch him, but Damian just slaps his hands away, a scowl back on his face but he doesn't resist when Bruce starts to lead him out and away from the room. The nurse is nowhere to be seen. Thankfully. If she'd stuck around for Damian's break down… well, Damian would go right back to defensive.

"Do you want to see Dick again?" Bruce asks. They have a few hours left of visiting they're aloud to do before they're kicked out. Bruce, even if seeing Dick so sick is agonizing, would like to spend as much time as possible with him.

Damian gives a small, hesitant nod of the head and Bruce leads them both back into the room. The wave of guilt and sadness hits him again at the sight of Dick, but he swallows it down and sits back down at the sofa chair he had been previously and selfishly napping in. Alfred had pulled up his own chair next to the opposite side of the bed and is currently holding a book, looking at Bruce intently.

"Master Damian," Alfred says, voice soft, and eyes moving to the young charge, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Pennyworth," Damian says, voice not as annoyed as he probably tried to make it sound.

"Hmm. Well, would you like to read to your brother?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow and Damian scowls. "What?"

Alfred smiles and holds out the book in his hands and Damian takes it reluctantly, standing and staring at the cover like he has no clue what to do next.

"_The Tale of Despereaux_… is that a mouse?"

"Indeed, sir. It's one of Master Dick's favorites."

Bruce gives Alfred a confused look because Dick has no favorite books. The kid loathes reading because of his persistent dyslexia. Alfred returns a knowing look and Bruce suddenly understands. Alfred is tricking Damian into reading a book not only at his level, but for his brother.

Damian studies the cover for a second, glances at Dick, and then turns to Bruce, holding out the book. "If you believe Grayson can hear it, _you_ should read it."

Bruce almost declines but Damian doesn't look like he'll change his mind, so instead he grabs Damian's hand and pulls him into his lap. Damian squawks but Bruce holds him there and opens to the first page of the book. If Damian is going to make him read a classic children's book, he's going to make sure the only child in the room will listen.

"_This story begins within the walls of a castle, with the birth of a mouse. A small mouse. The last mouse born to his parents and the only one of his litter to be born alive_."

At first, Bruce felt awkward reading and Damain kept squirming, but as Bruce entered the third chapter, he's actually enjoying reading the book and Damian's leaning against his chest, cuddled on his lap, eyes following along.

As Bruce was about to move on to the next chapter, Damian surprised him by reaching towards the book and grasping it in his own hands, pulling it from Bruce.

"Grayson can hear us… right?"

Bruce looks down at Damian and he can practically see the gears in his head turning. Bruce smiles. "Of course he can, kid."

"And… this children's book is his favorite?"

"Sure is," Bruce lies easily.

Damian nods, as if it's not surprising that an elementary level book can be his eldest brothers favorite. If Dick actually enjoyed reading, Bruce is sure he would like this book.

"I'll read to him now, if it's his favorite."

"Go for it, bud."

Damian nods again and holds the book up to his face, still curled up on Bruce's lap, and face scrunched up in concentration, almost like he's worried that if he messes up while reading it would no longer be Dick's "favorite".

"_Despereaux's siblings tried to educate him in the ways of being a mouse…_"

As Damian reads, Bruce looks over his head over towards where Alfred is looking at the two with some sort of pride Bruce cannot quite place. He grins at the man who raised him, and Alfred smiles back, and the next hour is about nothing but his boys, a mouse, a princess, some soup, and a spool of thread.

He closes his eyes, and for the first time in almost twenty four long hours, he feels almost content.

-o-o-o-o-

The second time leaving Dick's room was extremely hard to do, though Bruce knew it was for everyone's own good that they left before the nurses kicked them out. Damian was practically falling asleep by the time they left, but his hands were white knuckled on the book and he sounded determined to get through the next chapter, but Bruce didn't want Damian to exhaust himself.

If _The Tale of Despereaux_ is not Dick's favorite book, it definitely will be once he learns of how long Damian spent reading it and how much effort he put into each character's voice.

Bruce liked the voice he gave Despereaux; it was his own voice.

Now they're driving home in silence, well, just Damian and Bruce. Because Bruce came earlier on his own and Alfred drove a different car later, they had to figure out how they would get both cars home. In the end, it was decided that father and son go back in one car and Alfred take home the other.

Bruce leans over to the radio and turns the music up a few notches. The atmosphere is… murky. Not quite suffocating but enough for it to be too quiet but neither occupants wanting to break the silence. Fifteen minutes down the highway out of the city, something other than Ed Sheeran's _I Don't Care_ reaches his ears.

The sound of a stomach grumbling.

Bruce glances sideways at Damian he previously and rather reluctantly let in the front passenger seat. Damian has his knees pulled to his chest again, the book still wrapped in his hands. He's glancing out the window towards the darkening sky and Bruce makes a decision, finds the nearest exit, and stops at the closest crappy fast food restaurant, thinking that one cheat night with a horrible burger won't ruin their physique or get Alfred too angry at them.

By the time he pulls into the manor, Damian is asleep in the passenger seat, a half eaten burger in one hand, the book still clutched in the other. Bruce almost doesn't have the heart to wake him, he just sits there staring at his son's face, vowing to make sure that not only Dick gets through this, but all his other kids as well.

Before he wakes Damian up, he presses a small kiss to his forehead, knowing that if Dick were in the car too, he would be beaming with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I put Dick in a coma? Yes I did! Don't worry though, it won't actually last that long, it's just important for the general beginning plot of this story. Lots of angst coming up!
> 
> Let me know what you thought! I live for comments!!!!!


	3. Won't you box it up for me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family gathers. Bruce finds himself one step closer to finding out who Nightwing's shooter is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I got stuck at a part and then October came around and I tried to do whumptober... And by that I epically failed at doing whumptober. So, instead of beating myself up over not getting a one-shot out every day I put on _Birds_ by Imagine Dragons and just plowed through the rest of this. I forgot to mention that this fic is both inspired and named after that particular song.
> 
> Anyway! Hopefully last or second to last chapter with Dick in a coma! I don't want it to last long, just long enough to set the scene that I want.

It's surreal to walk back in the manor after spending most of the day at the hospital. Bruce is tired to his bones, Damian's practically asleep where he's standing, and even Alfred's eyes are a bit glossy as he greets them in the garage, lifting an eyebrow at the _Wendy's_ trash in Bruce's hands. 

"Damian was hungry," Bruce says, shrugging his shoulders and Alfred sighs. 

They begin the walk into the manor, which is normal for the most part. Sure, Bruce feels like he's a walking corpse, one more push from completely losing it, but at the same time he feels… almost fine. Okay. Not like the world is shattering under his feet, more like it's still, unturning, nothing good or bad predicted to happen. Dick's in the hospital in a coma, Damian is mumbling he's going to check on Batcow, Alfred is discussing how Lucius called, Clark is eating a brownie in the kitchen, Jason is playing Angry Birds on Tim's tablet-

Wait.

Clark he can understand sticking around. 

But when did Jason get here?

"Is that the _Tale of Despereaux_, demon?" Jason says from his position on the couch, he's taking up most of it, his feet laying stubbornly on Duke's lap as Duke turns down the volume of that new superhero movie (_Endgame_ or something) down on the TV. "I didn't know you appreciated fine literature."

"I'm going to check on Batcow," Damain says, glaring at Jason, "I expect Todd to be gone by the time I come back."

Damain stomps away, though the book is still in his hands, which Bruce takes as a good sign. Jason shrugs and goes back to the game, his finger hovering over the sling shot as if mentally planning out every move he could make. 

"So I'm guessing Goldie is still alive since you're currently not out putting every criminal in a body cast," Jason says, nonchalantly even. Like he isn't making light of the situation.

A slight flash of annoyance washes over Bruce but he forces himself to swallow it down. Jason is his most… difficult child. He doesn't respond well to affection, if Bruce had tried to pull Jason into a hug like he had done with Damian a few hours previous he'd be sporting a new black eye and maybe a stab wound. He likes to cover any kind of emotions with indifference and sarcasm, so even if he _is_ sounding affectionate chances are he's planning out how to get away from you. 

Bruce won't be the first to admit that it's not all Jason's fault. That honor belongs to Dick. Bruce is just a stubborn mule that will only admit it once Dick verbally abuses him about it for a few hours. Bruce had been the one to push him away when he came back from the dead. Jason was angry, Bruce was angry that he was angry, and it turned into a vicious act where instead of welcoming his returned son with open arms, he threw punches. Jason was lashing out, killing and destroying lives because it was the only thing he thought he could do. Jason was so open, all the pain and fear fully visible on his face, and Bruce called him a criminal, betrayed any trust Jason was trying so hard to prove was still there. 

Bruce chose the Joker over Jason. 

Or that's how Jason saw it. Bruce saw it different, but according to Alfred, what Bruce thinks about it doesn't matter. 

Jason has been getting better though. Seemingly, he's gotten it through his thick, stubborn skull that Bruce doesn't allow killing, even if a man like the Joker fully deserves it, even if the death a man like Joker will undoubtedly make the world a better place. If the Joker was to get shot by one of his own goons, or the police, or die in an Arkham breakout gone wrong, God _knows_ he wouldn't care. 

He doesn't care if the Joker is murdered, tortured, mutilated, dumped in the middle of the Mariana Trench with a ball and chain. He doesn't. Because, in a way, Bruce agrees with Jason that the world is better off with a monster like him dead. But, Bruce doesn't think the world is better off if he or any of his allies are the ones to do it. 

He doesn't know if Jason quite understands that yet, but at least Jason is honoring his rules by not killing anymore. He's still using guns, but they're rubber bullets. He still beats the shit out of drug dealers and pedophiles, but he's at least leaving them alive enough to be placed in the hospital. Half a year ago those types of criminals were found without their heads and some other important reproductive organs. Jason has gone more than a couple months without ending a life or permanently injuring one and Bruce is going to make sure that Jason only gets better. 

"Dick is recovering," Bruce says instead of scolding Jason for being a little shit. Jason doesn't take affection _or_ annoyance very well. It's best to just tell facts with Jason.

"Coma, right? That sucks ass." Jason asks, pulling a small blue bird in the slingshot and launching it at the pig's structure. He taps the bird mid shot and it splits into three, multiplying the damage. 

Bruce grinds his teeth but forces himself once again to relax. It's starting to grate on Bruce's nerves that they're all asking _him_ how Dick is doing. He's getting a little tired of explaining over and over and over that yes, Dick is alive, no Dick's in a coma, no we don't know when he'll wake up, yes you can visit him but it will be awhile before the hospital allow more than two people at a time. 

Why does Bruce have so many kids. Why does Dick have so many people who care about him. 

And Bruce knows it's not going to be the last time he explains everything. Cass wants to facetime in a couple hours, Tim will be back at the manor in a little bit, Selina is commanding him to meet her by midnight, Kate thankfully isn't pushing but he'll have to talk to her too. Then there's Kori and Roy and Wally and Clark and J'onn and Diana and Oliver and Barry and all the kids Dick helped train in the Teen Titans and-

The superhero world is giant. There are people that Bruce has only heard of and has never actually met. Dick though? He's met everyone. He's made _friends_ with everyone. It's amazing. Impossible for anyone other than Dick to do. 

Though, right now he kind of wishes Dick was reclusive like Jason or Damian, that way Bruce would only have to keep his family updated and not the entire hero community. 

Hell, even some of Gotham's villains care for the first Robin. He's wormed his way into most everyone's heart. He won't be surprised to see Harley Quinn finding a way to break out of the Suicide Squad to pumbel whoever shot Dick with her favorite hammar once she finds out.

All this, and not to mention all the out-of-cape friends Dick has made in Blüdhaven.

Maybe he should make a "_Dick's friends_" mass email.

Well, at this point, the words of Alfred ring true that what Bruce feels about it _doesn't matter_. Dick has more people than Bruce that care about him, and if these people all want to be updated on his condition but at different, sporadic times then there's nothing he can do about it. Dick's an adult and the family he chooses is exactly the same as the family he didn't. 

So he explains again that yes, Dick is alive, no Dick's in a coma, no we don't know when he'll wake up, yada yada yada. 

Jason doesn't ask if he'll be able to visit. Bruce doesn't bring it up. They both already know that with Dick's condition, the hospital is only going to let family. Yes, Jason is family but according to all known records, Jason Todd has been dead for years. 

Sure, some of the hospital staff (or all… Bruce will need to check up on _that_ too) know their identities and considering that heroes coming back from the dead is an almost routine thing it won't boggle their heads too much if Bruce were to go up and explain that "this is my son Jason, he died but he's been back for awhile, he wants to see his older brother."

Though, Bruce knows without asking that Jason won't appreciate being outed. Bruce isn't sure why, but Jason rather likes being legally dead. Bruce won't shove his nose into it quite yet.

"You know, Jason," Bruce says, "if you're playing that tablet to anger Tim, his plane isn't scheduled to leave for another hour."

"Oh really?" Jason asks and Duke rolls his eyes, poking Jason's toes. Jason shrugs and puts the tablet down and replaced it with a book in his hands. "Thanks, B. I actually really hate that game."

"You relate to the title or something?" Duke snarks, and when Jason gives him a wide eyed look of surprise he shrugs. "Just saying."

"Dukey," Jason says slowly, "you're my new favorite brother."

Duke's nose crinkles at the nickname but he also looks very proud of himself to not be on Jason's infinite shit list.

Bruce chuckles and makes to walk past Jason, ruffling his hair as he does so, ruining his perfectly styled white streak. Jason makes a startled _whaaa_ noise and Bruce is out of the room before something could be thrown at him. 

Which is where he runs into Clark, still stuffing a brownie in his mouth. Bruce wonders briefly if it's a second (or third) helping or if he's simply eating slowly, but he pushes that aside. Clark quickly finishes the brownie, looking sheepish and apologetic and Bruce takes a deep breath.

"I heard," Clark says before Bruce could force anything out. His eyebrows come together, worry painted across every feature. "Bruce, I'm so sorry."

And panic flutters in Bruce's chest because he doesn't know how to respond to that, and he knows he's going to be told that a lot, especially when the entirety of the Justice League finds out. 

Bruce shakes his head, trying to come up with words, because he's not hurt, he's not in the hospital, he's not a child. Bruce is the _father_ and he's not supposed to be told sorry, especially by someone who has no fault in the tragedy. Sorry is supposed to be told to Dick, sorry is supposed to be told to Damian and Tim and Jason and Cass and Duke and-

A hand is placed on his shoulder and he snaps out of his thoughts. 

"You saw it happen, didn't you?" Clark whispers. 

And Bruce is speechless. There's horror in Clark's eyes as Bruce doesn't respond, like he knows exactly what's going on in Bruce's head. 

The shame in his chest. 

"You couldn't have known this would happen, Bruce," Clark continues.

Bruce shakes his head again, he needs to say something, needs to get Clark to shut up because Bruce doesn't want to do this right now, not when he's been busy making sure everyone else is okay to ignore the knot in his stomach. Not when he's been focusing on everyone else. Not when he's been pushing aside the inkling of the voice telling him that this is somehow his fault for the past day.

Not when he's been convincing himself that he's _fine_.

Then, suddenly, Bruce is pulled into a strong embrace, one that he entirely doesn't expect. He stands there, stiff as a board as Clark pats his back awkwardly until he hesitatingly returns the gesture, and then _desperately_ returns the gesture. 

Dick would hug him. At times like this, Dick would always hug him, even if Bruce will snap if he did. After Jason died, Dick pushed aside their arguments for just a second to hug Bruce and storm off. After Steph died, Dick clutched onto Bruce like a lifeline after the gang activity finally died down, and at the time Bruce could tell that there was something deeper to that hug but to this day Bruce is too afraid to ask. After Damian, Dick sobbed and sobbed into Bruce's chest for what felt like hours. After they thought Tim died, Dick went out of his way to corner Bruce and force an embrace out of him. After Cass seemingly joined the League of Assassins, Bruce was so distraught that the embrace caught him by surprise, but Dick clutched on babbling about how it's okay and they'll get her back. 

After Bruce got him out of that bomb wired to his heart, Dick immediately fell into a desperate hug. After Bruce came back from being lost in time, Dick was there. After every single terrible thing that's happened to their family made with scraps and frayed thread, after every argument and lashing out, Dick would always shove everything off the table for a few moments to make sure Bruce knew he could break for a minute, and that Dick will do his best to hold him together even if they're pissed as hell at each other.

Bruce didn't know how much he's been craving a hug until right now. 

Now, when he doesn't have Dick to initiate.

"It will be okay, Bruce," Clark says, "he's gonna be okay…"

-o-o-o-o-

Clark left soon after that—saying he needed to help back at the farm, that he'll talk to Bruce sometime soon and he would like to be kept updated as much as possible—and surprisingly Jason stayed. Bruce spent the next hour video chatting with Cass, who's just bought a plane ticket back to Gotham, and then he spent thirty minutes speaking with Barbara. 

According to her, her father hasn't found any evidence of a sniper on the opposite building. Bruce almost feels bad when she tells him this. He's _Batman_. This was _Nightwing_. He should have been the one checking out the surrounding buildings. He should have been checking for fresh evidence. He should have been examining video footage. He should have been tearing the streets apart looking for the person who's done this. 

Instead, he's been slowly falling apart at the seams, trying to keep himself together long enough to make sure everyone is at least alive and somewhat happy. In Dick's case, just _alive_. 

Now all he has is day old evidence and a bloodied bullet in a little baggie given to the police after Dick's surgery to look forward to. 

He still thanks Barbara. Let's her know visiting is only for family for a little while longer. She doesn't make for small chat, saying a simple "get the asshole who did this to us, B" before hanging up. 

Bruce would have gone to take the asshole down with or without her permission. It still felt good to know that she's as pissed and hurt about this as he is. 

So with that, he's been in the cave, dressed in the (recently _washed_) suit with the cowl down, turning his phone on silent after a little notification pops up announcing Tim's in the air. Expected to arrive in perhaps just an hour. Maybe less. It's one city to another, neither that far apart, but still faster than a car. 

Bruce has an hour to do the thing he does best. 

Brood.

He sits at the Batcomputer, in the Batcave, the smell of the Batmobile's gasoline from it's recent refill lingers in the air, a Batarang sitting lazily by the computer mouse. 

Bat bat bat. As he works, clicking files Barbara sent to him, he doesn't understand what those things are repeating in his mind, until he blinks and he sees a lopsided, toothy grin insisting that "_you're Batman! You're supposed to keep with the theme_!" 

Damn it. He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to think of anything relating to that little boy and how nestled into Bruce's life he is. How deep his influence goes. 

He hovers the mouse over a file, one containing multiple versions of the same video, just different angles and maybe slightly different time stamps. 

He takes a deep breath and opens the first video of Nightwing getting shot. 

He quickly cuts out of that video and turns to a different one, the roof of a building next door. 

Bruce was there. He doesn't need to see it. He's seen it already in detail. He doesn't need to see it _again_.

_Not yet_, a traitorous voice whispers, sounding almost like himself… just a bit more of a growl. Because he knows, oh does he know, that he'll spend hours with this footage. He'll spend the whole night sifting and searching and replaying and he'll find nothing. Not a single thing. Then, he'll place the cursor over that damned video, thinking, maybe there's something he missed? Maybe there's a shadow or a reflection or _anything_ that's not supposed to be there. 

He knows he'll eventually watch it. 

For now though, he's almost content watching the boring scene of a rooftop across the street. 

Almost. 

The time of crime comes and goes. There's nothing. No sign of a sniper setting up. So gun. No shadow. No figure. No movement at all besides the rustling of a plastic _Taco Bell_ cup abandoned, laying on the rooftop.

He switches videos. Different roof, different angle. 

Nothing. 

Another. 

He can see the police precinct in the distance of this one. He can see a black cluster of pixels standing next to a smaller cluster, a few blurry dots of blue. He watches the rooftop the camera is stationed at, ignoring how the smaller figure suddenly lurches to the side and falls to the ground.

He turns that video off, his stomach wanting to rebel.

He can't do this. He _can't_.

He reaches his hands back to his neck, he clutches the thick fabric and tugs it above his head in one smooth movement. 

This, he thinks, feels a lot better. 

Batman pulls up the next video, and somehow it's easier to watch. Easier to let go. Easier to focus. 

It isn't long until he's surfed through every single video except the ones he's been dreading. He's almost tempted to go back and try again, watch longer than five minutes before and after the shooting. Make it ten, fifteen maybe. Study every single pixel one at a time until he finds who did this. It had to be somebody. There had to be evidence of somebody doing this. It's impossible for every single one of these cameras to miss it. Even with the best rifles it's incredibly difficult to make a premeditated shot at a small blue dot on the police rooftop from most of these buildings in that kind of weather. Maybe the perpetrator was in the army? Maybe they're enhanced? He needs to study further. He needs to get video footage from buildings further away. Buildings with a vantage point that would be possible for people like _Deathstroke_ to make a deadly shot. 

Who knows, maybe it was Deathstroke who did this. He's not normally one to attack Nightwing unprovoked, he has—as much as Bruce hates to say it—_honor_ that stops him from killing Dick with every encounter they have. 

Unless… unless Nightwing was a job. Unless Wilson was hired. 

Or perhaps the shooter was from the inside of one of the buildings? A more difficult shot from most vantage points, but entirely possible if the shooter was trained enough. He'll have to get Batgirl to get every kind of video surveillance possible in each building, every room, every hallway, every office or stinking apartment there is. 

Bruce is almost tempted to go along with this train of thought, though it's Batman who clicks the last video anyway. 

The angle of the camera mostly shows the spotlight, that way it could keep track of anyone trying to pull the switch on it; even though most of the time it's Jim Gordon doing the honors. Batman hardens his jaw when he sees himself and Nightwing land on the roof. Batman, like always, is straight to the point while Nightwing hangs back, knowing already that he's been trying Batman's patience the entire night and that it might be best for both of their tempers if he let his former mentor take the wheel.

There's no sound, but Batman knows where the conversation is the moment Nightwing puts on a fake pouting face, dramatically cracking his knuckles, clearly done with keeping quiet. He lasted a minute, which is longer than what he can usually do.

_"I knew it. **Napkin Man**. He's the **worst**_."

Clearly, used to this, Jim ignores Nightwing and continues to talk, smoking his pipe and holding it with practiced movements so the rain doesn't put it out. 

Batman replies. 

Jim continues.

Nightwing smirks. 

"_That's the problem with Napkin Man. He just doesn't_-"

Hands go limp, face goes slack, a streak of red, Nightwing falls out of frame and Batman surge's forward.

He's never pressed the exit button so fast in his entire life. 

He rips off the cowl and just stares at the blank screen. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest yet his breathing is calm. He's grinding his teeth so hard he's afraid he'll break a tooth but his body is still. 

Nothing. 

Absolutely nothing. 

"Bruce?" 

Bruce's heart stops and restarts like a rusty engine before he turns his face around. There, on the stairs leading up to an old grandfather clock, is none other than Tim Drake.

He pulls out his phone without thinking about it. There's a little notification announcing that Tim's arrived in Gotham two whole hours ago. There's missed text messages, two missed phone calls. The most recent text reads: "_nevermind alfred came_".

Shit. 

_Shit_. 

_He_ was supposed to pick up Tim.

And to make matters worse, Tim looks sick to his stomach. His face is green, a single hand wrapped around the railings so tightly his bony knuckles are white. His eyes are wide, like he can't quite believe them. 

Bruce wants nothing more in that moment than to grab Tim and stash him away upstairs, but Bruce knows that if Tim's seen what he thinks he's seen… then there's nothing he can do about what Tim does next. 

So he remains silent, waiting for Tim to make the first move. 

The boy swallows, blinking owlishly before he glances downwards and looks Bruce in the eyes. Then, a look of determination and Bruce doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing, and that confusion only grows when Tim straightens his posture and finishes his descent down the stairs. Bruce simply watches him as he grabs a spare chair from the side of the giant monitor, scoots it over next to Bruce, and plops himself down. 

"So?" Tim asks, his voice a little wobbly and skin still a little green, but the sharpness to his eyes are undeniable. "What have you found so far?"

"Tim…" 

"No B," Tim says with a tightness to his tone, "I'm helping."

Bruce sighs and reopens the video file, once again ignoring the one at the very top, but this time it's more for Tim than it is for himself. Tim's determined, and he can't send Tim to bed like he did Damian because Tim looks somewhat rested; the designer bags under his eyes are slightly faded. Having the Young Justice back again with old and new friends must have really helped with his sleeping schedule and caffeine addiction. 

Bruce hates to ruin it. This is going to ruin it. 

So, if Bruce tries to send Tim to bed or out of the cave, Tim will insist that he's not tired and for once he'll be telling the truth. If Bruce _forces_ him away, the moment he leaves the cave, even if he locks it up, Tim will find his way in and do his own research, therefore staying up later than what he would have if Bruce had just let him stick around. Plus, there is a high chance of Tim actually finding something that Bruce missed, and if Bruce gets himself on Tim's bad side early on in the investigation, he'll keep the information to himself until he confirms or voids it himself. 

"I haven't found anything yet, nothing but the direction that the bullet might have come from," Bruce says, instead of _go upstairs_ like he wants to. He wonders how long it will be before Jason works himself up into coming down. How long it will be before Damian shoves his tiredness aside and follows down as well. Will Duke come down? He should be in bed, being as he's more of a daytime vigilante than a nighttime but evidence shows the boy is completely willing to stay up all night to get something done. Barbara is probably doing her own research right now, maybe even working together with Cass via video chat. Who knows what Steph is doing, she's probably out on the streets right now, tearing it apart. She's very protective of the number of members in the "_Dead Robin's_" club. She likes it at three, and she'll turn brutal if it seems a fourth person will soon join their ranks. 

Tim nods, lacing his fingers together. "Okay. So, watch it all again?" 

Bruce nods, defeated, saying nothing more as he clicks on one of the lesser eventful videos of a simple rooftop. The most exciting thing that happens in this video is when a cat startles suddenly from its perch on the roof. The sound of a gunshot, probably, scares it from it's self cleaning. But Bruce watches it again, his eyes feeling heavy and droopy. He hasn't slept in well over 24 hours. He can easily go longer, but if he doesn't sleep he loses all authority to tell his kids to do so. 

Tim watches the video with a sharpness that Bruce admittedly lacks. There's a reason Ra's al Ghul has called Tim a greater detective than Batman, and this is precisely why. Tim doesn't just focus, he _emerses_. He doesn't stare, he studies. He can catch the slightest details, ones that Bruce misses. With Tim around, Bruce can't ever confidently call himself the greatest detective ever again. Tim puts Sherlock Holmes to shame. 

When the surveillance video ends and Tim simply shakes his head, Bruce moves on to the next one without question. 

Halfway through the next video, Bruce clears his throat. The silence is deafening between the two, the guilt clawing at his ribs aren't helping a single bit. "I'm sorry for forgetting Tim," he forces out before he could convince himself otherwise. 

Tim hums, seemingly indifferent to the rare apology, but his eyes do dart to Bruce for the slightest second. "It's alright," Tim replies, "I understand. You lose time down here."

Bruce shakes his head. "It's inexcusable," he turns his body around and places a hand on Tim's shoulder. A tension neither of them seemed to notice dissipates from Tim's shoulders the moment they make contact. "Tim, you're important, just as important as this. I should have gotten you when I said I would."

Tim doesn't reply, his eyes stuck on the screen. 

Bruce fights off a prickling of irritation. He's frustrated, sure, but he has absolutely no right to take that out on Tim. "Kiddo, talk to me-"

"Bruce, shut up." 

Bruce is so shocked by the sudden command that it takes a moment for him to think he should probably chastise Tim for that kind of unprovoked tone, but then Tim lurches forward, grabs the mouse, and clicks the video back ten seconds. 

"What do y-"

"_Shh_!"

Bruce snaps his jaw shut and turns back to the screen, squinting and trying to see what Tim sees. A few moments pass and then Tim grins, pointing at a seemingly random spot on the screen. 

"There!" Tim announces, "right there!"

"What did you see," Bruce asks, a growl creeping into his voice from slight annoyance. 

"It skips!" The boys says, practically vibrating with excitement. "Watch-" he clicks the video back even further and points out different things like how the wrappers on the roof move, or how there's a burst of rain there, the light flickers there, and then he begins to point out the exact same things in the same order just later on in the video until suddenly, a single wrapper is moved across the screen like it teleported.

Someone put the video on a loop, and then brought it back to the normal time when they were done. 

"Five minutes," Tim whispers, "is that enough time?"

"Yes," Bruce says, backing up the video himself and watching with clearer eyes. "If they're really good, a skilled sniper can set up, shoot, and go within that time frame. It's difficult to do, but possible. The right angle too... Let's see if we can find this building in any of the other videos."

"Or if the others loop too."

"Yes." Bruce nods and together they go even more into the rest of the videos (excluding that first one of course), and they find that none of the others appear to be doctored, and none of them have that particular building in it at all. Tim even points out that an angle of one of the cameras is a little odd, and if it was pointed in a more practical direction that building _would_ be in frame. 

After some digging, Bruce found that the building is simply an office building with various phone services on the inside. The current owner—as of two years—of the property is Dee Jefferson, the CEO of a minor phone service company. After some digging up on Jefferson it's revealed that he's a five-foot-six man with a belly and a major gun restrictions activists, if the "GUNS KILL PEOPLE" in his Facebook bio is anything to go off of. Happily married, no kids, loves his nephews. No crime splotches, no runs in with the bats, is very clean with his money and releases the business's spending records to the public every two months. No reason to hate the Bats, let alone Nightwing.

So, not their guy. But whoever shot Dick had access to this building and a way to doctor the security footage. They must be quick, extremely skilled with a rifle, and—if the target was Nightwing and it wasn't just a spur of the moment shot—must be informed enough to know Nightwing would make a visit to Gotham that night. 

They might be working in a team, someone to shoot, someone else to plant a napkin that would have strange and unsettling information on it about the Joker and the Riddler, strange and unsettling enough for Jim Gordon to immediately rush to call the bats over. Maybe someone else to stalk Nightwing back at Blüdhaven. 

Again, if Nightwing happened to be the target all along. Bruce doesn't know how he would feel if the sniper was originally aiming for Jim, or Batman, or even Robin; that they saw Nightwing instead and changed their mind last second. 

No, no it feels a little better to think that Nightwing's been the target from the beginning. As horrible as that sounds. 

Once they do all the digging they can do, Bruce glances at the clock and notices it's well into the AM territory of the next day. 

It's about time the research halts and the physical part of detective's work begins. 

He stands up from the computer and Tim stands up as well, as if taking Bruce's action as a sign to get up and go out himself. 

No, no Bruce has to do this himself. 

"I'm going alone, Tim," Bruce says. 

Tim lifts an eyebrow, silently asking if Bruce truly thinks that he's going to willingly sit this patrol out. Bruce knows from experience how stubborn Tim is. He became Robin after Bruce told himself _never_ again because of pure wits and stubbornness after all. 

So no, Bruce doesn't truly think Tim would willingly sit this out. 

Instead, he diverts his attention somewhere else. 

"I need you to stay here and go through the records of all the workers at Jefferson corporate. See if any have a grudge against us, a criminal record, or is trained on a long range rifle."

It took a little more convincing than that, but Tim eventually and rather reluctantly sat back down at the computer. Bruce told him that the computer work and the data is just as important as going out and physically studying the crime scene, but in reality, Bruce is itching for a fight.

And he doesn't want anyone to be there to stop him from tearing the streets of Gotham apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...? Disappointing? The best chapter yet? I enjoyed writing this one. I think I went too far into Bruce's inner monologue but I also believe he's a natural thinker and he does inner monologue a lot anyway. So does Tim. They both talk to themselves a ton.
> 
> Anyway, so those new DC chapters huh? I'm planning on keeping Tim as Robin because that Drake thing with that ugly ass costume is just horrible. Alfred dead? Pft. No. Jason training young criminals for Lex Luthor?? Don't make me laugh. I'm trying to keep as close to Rebirth canon as possible but SOME THINGS ARE JUST BULLSHIT.
> 
> The only good thing that's happened in recent issues so far is that fake Dick is a Talon now. It's interesting to see DC go in that direction, especially... because I have similar but not the same plans for our boy, so I'm kinda interested to see where it goes as I write this.
> 
> Especially since Dick was promised to get his memories back in 2020. My guess is it's gonna be in April when we get our son back. Him turning 80 years old and such.
> 
> Also??? Tom King??? Not going to work on Batman anymore?????
> 
> PRAISE THE LORD.
> 
> anyway, that's enough rambling. Till next time! My goal is to update this once a month because of how freakishly long these chapters are. Bye!


	4. Put my mind in cruise control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman takes towards the GCPD to dig for evidence. He quickly finds he's not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pokes head around corner* uh. hi? I'm gonna be honest, if an update to this fic surprised you, just know it surprised me as well. Um. Anyway. Here's some free words and I apologize for taking almost a year to do so? If you want an explanation it will be in the ending notes, if you're here just to read some angst, then here ya go!
> 
> Enjoy!

Batman: has a tail.

Two tails, if one wished to be technical, because he doubts that either tail knows the other exists. They've been hiding in miraculously different spots, staying none-the-wiser to each other's presence. It would almost be amusing if he still weren't so… upset. 

A little over twenty-four hours ago, Nightwing was shot in the head, rushed to the hospital, put in surgery, and came out in a coma. 

Bruce is pretty sure he has the right to be a little upset. Especially since both of his tails know there's only one person who can sneak up on him. And he knows for a fact that Alfred Pennyworth isn't the one hiding behind a dumpster or peeking over the lip of a three story apartment complex. One is too nimble and light, too quick on their feet—the other is too heavyweight, all muscle. 

It's insulting that they think he can't sneak up on him now when he's upset. He never leaves on patrol anything less than clear in his head. He's long past going out in a rage to put simple muggers and low life grunts in body casts. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne dug him out of that hole long ago and made sure it was filled with the strongest cement so he can't dig himself back in. Besides, Dick would be... disappointed if Bruce fell back into bad habits because of this.

Sure, he already has a mental map to the best gargoyles to brood over depending on what mood he's in after revisiting the GCPD rooftop. And yes, his knuckles are itching to punch something, make something feel the agony he has raging inside of himself but can't quite express. 

But he has no plans to go… _ham_ on Gotham tonight.

Even if his tails have thrown a Grodd level monkey wrench into his plans. 

He makes his way down towards the police department, using his grapple to swing across streets and lift himself towards higher ground. 

"_Fine, it's not a contest. It's a training moment to hone our… _ ** _falling_ ** _ skills. Rather than waste time on gargoyles, we _ ** _improve_ ** _ our ability to war on _ ** _the crime_**_!_"

Batman's arm's shake with the combined strain of his bodyweight and of his armor. Instead of swinging all the way up to the next building, he retracts his grapple, letting gravity take over for a second, the feeling of wings against his back as his cape catches air as the rest of him catches gravity.

_ "You should fire your rope, _ ** _Old Man_**_._"

He doesn't fire his rope, he lets the ground of an alleyway come towards him. At the last moment, he changes his momentum, bringing himself forward into a roll, lessening the impact on his body and getting suspicious puddles all over himself. He rolls easily to his feet and promptly doesn't think about how it was Dick who taught him how to properly fall. For all the training he's done before he met a certain young man on a flying trapeze, no one really taught him how to properly land from a fall. It was all more about… just not falling. Dick, for as tragic as his beginnings were, was always there to make sure that if someone fell… then he'd be there to catch them in whatever way he could. 

"_You might be able to teach _ ** _me_ ** _ a thing or two_."

Well, it seems he's failed at not thinking about it. No matter.

He stands tall and wipes lingering muddy drops of water from his suit, which is when the sky begins to openly weep for the thousandth time this month. It's a few drops here, another there, then it's pouring, a rumble of thunder making itself known from above. 

Which takes the gargoyle at the entrance of Chinatown off the list. It's high up and is quite famous for getting hit by lightning. 

Rather than hearing or seeing, he feels the presence of a second and then a third presence land somewhere behind him, further down the alley. He sighs. He was hoping to perhaps lose them, but alas, it seems they are persistent.

Which, quite honestly, doesn't surprise him. 

He takes a deep but silent breath, shrugging his shoulders just a bit to make the cape fully fall over his front, encasing him in warm fabric and leaving his hands out of sight so he can confidently fist them without anyone taking notice. 

Might as well get it done and over with. 

"I know you're there," he says, not even having to consciously lower his voice into the graveled voice Batman is known so fondly for. He's long since been able to switch mentalities between Bruce Wayne and Batman, making the separation between identities impossible to mess up, impossible to let anything that can connect one to another. There was a time when it was easier to be Batman. Easier to focus on the situations at hand and shove emotions down deep into his belly. 

Again, praise God for Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.

Nothing but the sound of _pittering_ and _pattering_ from the rain reaches his ears and he sighs. He's not in the mood for many things, but this will quickly get on his nerves. "Do not make me drag you out myself."

With the sound of a mechanical chuckle, one of the tails decides to reveal themselves. With a splash, Red Hood lands in the alleyway from his previous position atop the fire escape system located above their heads. 

No matter how many times he sees it, the flash of the red helmet glinting in the harsh man-made light of Gotham never fails to twist something in Batman's stomach. It always brings him back years ago to that stand-off in that run down apartment, Jason standing there looking more vulnerable than what Batman or Bruce has ever seen, snarling as he held the Joker to his chest and demanded Bruce make a choice. To duffle bags filled with severed heads. To exploding warehouses and limp bodies found in the wreckage. 

Red Hood is Batman's greatest failure, and he knows he'll have to spend the rest of his life trying to make up for it. 

"How long did you know I was following ya?" Hood asks, arms folded across his chest and a smirk evident in his tone despite the filters distorting his voice. 

Batman doesn't answer him and looks towards the shadowy corner of another small alleyway branching off from this one, leading to a barely five foot hallway between a vape shop and a three star Thai restaurant. 

"Both of you," he grumbles.

Hood's head tilts but his confusion doesn't last long because none other than Catwoman emerges from the shadow, a smirk on her red lips and a smug sway to her hips. 

"Holy crap," Hood startles, and then quickly disguises his surprise with a clearing of his throat. "I mean, I knew she was there the entire time."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, kitten," Catwoman says back with amusement twitching the corners of her mouth. She walks past Hood and comes to a stop right in front of Batman, her hands placing themselves on her hips and her chin tilting right towards him with eyes narrowing. "I told you to see me at midnight."

"Yeah and he told Red he'd pick him up from the airport," Hood says from behind, "you're not special."

Catwoman rolls her eyes and folds her arms. Batman is sure that if her tail had more functionality than aesthetic, it would be twitching in agitation and annoyance. 

Batman would apologize, but it's nearing three in the morning, and he really needs to get to the police department before Jim's shift ends.

"Why are you following me," he demands, addressing the both of them. He can practically see Hood's hackles rise, but thankfully Catwoman answers first.

"Besides the fact you owe me an update? I'm just here to make sure you don't fill up the hospital_ too much_ tonight."

Oh ye of little faith. "I'm fine. And I will update you later. I'm busy."

Catwoman hums, tapping her chin. "Well, alright. I'll just watch from the shadows then," she leans upwards, her mouth now inches from his. He can taste her breath, and he fights to not react when her hands delicately land on his chest. "And maybe this time you won't notice." 

And how selfish of him to want to grab into her waist and drag her flush against him. It's all he can do to look into her eyes and see the underlying concern and worry in her gaze. She's putting on a front, one she always has when in front of any of the kids. She's very happy to act the seductive cat thief when in front of a crowd. If it we're just him and her, her motions would sway less, her mouth would frown, shoulders might slump, and she'll tell him what is causing her such concern and worry. 

But with Hood here, she'll keep up the image she's set for him then find another time to approach. He should invite her to the manor tomorrow. He'll just have to find what she'd changed her number to this time. 

She leans forward just a bit more, noses just close enough to almost brush, and Hood makes a gagging noise from behind. 

With a supportive squeeze to his shoulder, Catwoman breaks the contact and turns heel, making finger-guns at Hood as she walks past and returns to the shadows. Batman isn't sure if she's actually going to follow him for the rest of the night or if she's just going to return to her home. He supposes he'll find out soon. 

Instead of wondering too much about it, Batman changes his focus to Red Hood. Hood shuffles his feet a bit then positions himself into a nonchalant stance. 

"I'm here for the opposite reason," he says and Batman turns away with a huff. Hood continues anyway. "You're about to go ham on Gotham and I want to watch you do it, old man."

"I'm not about to _go_ _ham_."

"Mhm, yeah, I believe you."

Batman doesn't humor his sarcasm with a response. Just lifts an eyebrow under his cowl, causing Hood to snort humorlessly.

"So that's it? Not going to tell me to back off? Let you do your thing?"

"You are twenty-three years old," he replies, sweeping his cape behind him as he begins to mentally plot his way to the GCPD, "I lost the right to tell you what to do years ago."

"Great," Hood says, "means I can start using actual bullets again, yeah?"

Batman doesn't humor that bit of sarcasm either. Instead, he lets out a grunt, pulls out his grapple, and shoots himself up towards the skyscraper rooftops. 

Red Hood is quick to tag along, a humorous chuckle on his lips.

-o-o-o-o-

Jim Gordan is waiting for them when Batman lands on the roof. His back is turned, looking towards the direction Batman normally comes from, unaware that Batman specifically came from this direction to have a clear visual of the building the bullet came from. 

Normally, when Jim's back is turned like this—when he's leaning against the bat-signal and taking a long drag of an expertly covered from the rain cigarette, Batman might indulge himself in approaching as closely as he can before making his presence known, just to get in a good scare. 

But Batman doesn't feel much in the joking mood, and Jim's hand is hovering by his hip where his Glock 22 rests.

Batman understands the anxiousness. This rooftop stopped being safe twenty-four hours ago.

Batman makes sure his footsteps aren't silent as he lands, and for extra care he lets his cape catch a bit of noisy air. It succeeds in getting Jim's attention without startling the man, and soon he's turning around to find Batman stalking towards him with Red Hood stretching his back a few paces behind. 

At the sight of Hood, Jim's hand goes a bit stiff near the concealed weapon. Batman quickly lifts his own hand in a calming gesture. "He's fine."

Hood waves. "Rootin' tootin' ready for shootin', comish."

Jim gives an irked sniff, his mustache twitching as he waves his cigarette in the air, allowing the wind and rain to put it out. "If you trust him…"

"I do," Batman confirms.

Jim releases a sigh and relaxes ever so slightly, though he still looks like he could use one or two more drags of a cigarette. Unfortunately, due to years of interaction with Batman, Jim knows it’s next to impossible to keep a cigarette lit while fighting persistent wind and communicating with Gotham vigilantes all at the same time. Too many burnt fingers and too many soggy drags of a lit long gone out without realization. 

“What do you have on the shooting?” Bruce asks.

The question causes Hood to scoff and mumble quietly under his breath. “Straight to the point, huh?”

Both Jim and Batman ignore the comment as Jim steps forward, pulling an evidence baggy from the inside pocket of his trench coat. “Besides shards of what looks like a .308 Win? Not much.”

Batman takes the baggy and leans his body in a way that has the rain falling against his back and not against the mostly transparent bag. He has to carefully push the shards towards the bottom of the bag where word that spells out _ EVIDENCE _ isn't located in big blue printed letters. He frowns at the shards and ignores the clenching and unclenching of his gut. Despite the tip of the bullet being torn apart—suggesting the bullet used to be a hollow point—the rest is pretty intact. There’s drops of red in the bag, rubbing against the plastic and the bullet itself. He has to take a deep breath before stuffing the bag into his belt. 

This bullet was in his son’s skull. It was dug out of his brain just a few hours ago, placed in a bag, and sent to the police.

“Have you run it in the system?”

Jim shakes his head. “Whatever this bullet was shot out of, it wasn’t from a registered gun.”

Batman didn’t expect so. He sighs and is about to ask about any evidence gathered directly after the shooting when a low whistle meets his ears. He turns and finds Hood with his hands stuffed in his leather jacket pockets, casually standing over a white outline of a body. 

Batman grinds his teeth, then relaxes. 

“I thought you’d like to… uhm…” Jim starts and Batman stalks towards the outline. 

Nightwing’s outline. Or a vague one drawn out, at least. Batman forces himself to shove every bit of nausea threatening to tear though every single one of his defenses into the darkest corners of his mind. He studies the way the outline is positioned, noting the various numbered markings placed around the immediate area, perhaps showing where various blood splatters and such would be before rain washed it all away. Not that he really needs to know where the splattered were. He already knows what building the shooter was in. This only would have been helpful if Tim didn’t show up in the batcave earlier to add his always helpful input. 

“That building,” Hood suddenly says, pointing directly at the same building Tim and himself had discovered earlier. “That’s where the shooter was.”

Pride swells in Batman’s chest at the phenomenal detective work, but he simply makes a mental note to tell Hood "_good_ _ job" _later before he turns towards Jim. “I combed through the surveillance footage of that building earlier tonight. There is a period of five minutes where the footage loops. I need access to the cameras on the inside of the building and names of workers who have military experience or criminal records. If someone came onto the roof, shot a sniper rifle, and left all in five minutes, they would have to have access to the building.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jim promises, his voice tight as if he’s already dreading talking to the judge about this kind of warrant. Batman may officially be a part of the Justice League—an organization sanctioned by the government—but independently he’s still a vigilante, which is still technically illegal. Getting things done according to the law books is always difficult. Sure, he can have Tim and Barbara hack into the cameras, but because they would have to be inside the building to hack all the footage he needs and the fact he doesn’t believe much will be found anyway, he might as well pass the job to the police. 

“Good,” Batman grumbles before turning away. He’s about to signal to Hood to follow him off the roof when suddenly a hand lands on his shoulder.

Batman presses his lips together when he hears the courage summoning breath from Jim Gordon behind him.

“How is-”

Batman quickly interrupts. “He’s alive. Coma. I… will tell you more details at a later time, or allow a certain common benefactor to fill you in.”

Barbara. He means Barbara. Jim understands the innuendo and lets go. Batman doesn’t allow him to get the last word before he’s launching himself off the rooftop, shooting his rope to the closest building, Hood following along silently. 

The bullet in his belt weighs heavier than a freight train. About as heavy as the broken pearl necklace in his bedroom.

Perhaps heavier.

-o-o-o-o-

“So, why are we scaling the side of the building and not going straight to the roof?”

Batman latches his foot on the lip of an eleventh story window that belongs to Dee Jefferson, using it as leverage to open a dark window on the twelfth story. 

“Because,” Batman grunts, biceps straining slightly as he lifts himself up and into the building. He sticks his hand down towards Hood to help him inside, but Hood ignores the hand and climbs in on his own power. Batman doesn’t take it to heart and continues his explanation. “There is something here I need to check.”

“So you tossed a camera job on the commissioner and then decide to just doing it yourself?”

He looks around the room they’ve found themselves in, shaking his head slightly to answer Hood. The room is filled with various cubicles, a white-board sitting on the far wall has a faded happy birthday message to one of the associates. 

“Something else,” he replies and then walks towards the exit door. Hood follows along, hands in his pockets again and his footsteps light and uncaring. The building should be mostly empty, only a few stories in use at the moment. “The building was originally built in 1932 under the contract of Alan Wayne.”

“Yeah?” Hood asks, sounding entirely uninterested at the information as they walk down the empty hallways towards an elevator. Granted, most things in Gotham are connected to the Wayne name. “What of it?”

Batman presses the button that opens the elevator, pleased that he didn’t have to wait long for it to do so, and steps in. Hood follows and stands off to the side as Batman takes off a section of the elevator ceiling and jumps up, pulling himself onto the top of the contraption into the dark and every elevator shaft. “It means,” he explains, holding his hand out again. Hood takes it this time and Batman hefts him up “That there’s no thirteenth floor.”

“Yeah?” Hood repeats, now sounding entirely unamused. “What of it?”

Batman knocks on the walls around him and eventually finds a place in the wall that sounds different from the rest. It’s this spot where he places a minor explosive, strong enough to cause a few cracks. 

He backs up, unconsciously bringing his arm to Hood’s chest to push him back as well—to which Hood immediately hits his arm off and takes a few stubborn steps back himself—and detonates the explosive.

There’s a small boom and the sound of chunks of brick and cement falling past them down the shaft; a spider web of deep cracks left behind. Batman pushes against the cracks, his fist falls through the wall easily, making it a simple enough job to tear the rest of the hole wider.

He steps inside the hole and moves slightly out of the way once he’s inside, smiling slightly when Hood ends up beside him with an impressed whistle.

“Did Alan Wayne have a thing for owls?”

Batman grunts and looks around the secret floor, his smile quickly turning into a frown. 

The floor is empty, nothing but various abandoned furniture and such, but harnessed on the walls is a multitude of rusting but still sharp weapons, paintings on the walls of high class men and women dressed in Victorian aged clothes and white, owl shaped masks adjoining their faces. Batman steps in and brushes his hand against an old, rotting table with a moth eaten tablecloth sitting above it. There are so many buildings built in the early twentieth century in Gotham, that was it’s prime time for building after all, and most of the buildings were owned by Alan Wayne. To search through every single building with a secret thirteenth floor would take time that would honestly not be that worth it in the end.

“Owls don't make their own nests,” Batman says, frowning at the dust on the fingertip of his glove. “And due to superstition at the time regarding the number thirteen… it’s left these secret floors ripe for the taking.”

“You think… the Court shot ‘Wing?” Hood asks, striding with a bounce to his step towards one of the paintings, tilting his head at the sight of a masked little girl holding a sword to a Talon like a young princess appointing a knight. 

Batman rubs the dust off from his finger and looks towards a torn punching bag hanging from a doorway. When he walks towards it, there’s a snapping noise. He looks down and frowns at the skeleton of a raccoon. 

This floor used to be used by the Court of Owls, that’s for sure. But, like he suspected, it hasn’t been touched since he found them the first time. Even if various hardcore members of the cult still exist out in the world, constantly trying to revive the organization and bring the _ Gray Son of Gotham _ back to their ranks, they wouldn’t be so stupid to reuse hideouts that have already been discovered by the enemy. 

“Not anymore,” Batman replies, turning away from the room back towards the hole in the wall. 

“So we checked this place for nothin',” Hood deadpans before following Batman back onto the elevator shaft. He’ll have to clean up the wall later and confiscate all the weapons. 

"It's smart to check all possibilities."

"Yeah, whatevs."

Maybe he’ll have Duke and the others clean this place up, just to give them something to do later. They really just need to go ahead and clean up every secret thirteenth floor in Gotham already. There’s no more room for superstition; not when the existence of the supernatural and otherworldly has been proven true countless times within the past three decades alone and actually don’t have that much to do things humanity used to think it did. The Devil isn’t going to appear in the thirteenth story of a skyscraper, not when he’s currently trapped in a stone attached to his half-human daughter’s forehead. 

With that theory looked over and disproven, he and Hood exit the building and grapple to the roof. After doing a quick search, it’s found that there’s not any evidence left of the shooter. No shoe prints in the gravel, no cartage shells left behind, absolutely nothing. Batman takes a quick look at the camera that had been looped and finds no evidence of tampering.

He still disconnects it from the wall. He’ll look over it at the cave later.

Hood follows along silently as Batman goes to the surrounding skyscrapers that hold cameras that _ should _ have Dee Jefferson’s building in its sights and finds each of those cameras simply tilted or manually moved. He quickly dusts them for fingerprints, and he’s not surprised to find any. Not just because of the rain, but also because Batman gets the feeling that someone with the skill-set to pull off a shooting like this is smarter than that. 

It’s reaching 4am now, and Batman is really feeling the itch in his fists now, especially since he’s come up with nothing but a bloody bullet and a tampered camera. With the weather pouring down the way that it is, the safest and closest gargoyle to brood over and look for crime from is about seven blocks away. 

He turns in the direction of said gargoyle, and he notices Hood tense slightly.

And Bruce begins to wonder if Jason is really here for the opposite reason of Selina.

He’s tired. So tired. His eldest is in a coma with his identity outed to a number of medical workers. There are multiple families out there who know Nightwing was in the hospital last night. He broke down in front of civilians, in front of Duke, in front of Clark, all within a day's worth of time. He forgot to pick up Tim from the airport, and now that he thinks of it he should have called Cass a while ago even though they haven’t specified that he should. She should be leaving on her airplane back to Gotham soon, and he needs to talk to her. Earlier, Bruce shakily dealt with a thirteen year old throwing a fit like a _ thirteen year old _. He still hasn’t called Dick’s job—he’s not a cop anymore, is he?—and he still hasn’t filled in Lucius on the full situation. He needs to call a board meeting and reveal Dick’s injuries to the public and deal with the fallout sooner rather than later.

He doesn’t have a contingency plan for coma’s. But he needs to make one for that while also tracking down an attempted murderer while keeping his family together at the threads because that is what Dick used to do.

It should have never been Dick’s job to keep the family together.

Batman sighs, letting the tension in his shoulders fall, because even though he’s tempted to go through the streets of Gotham and punch criminals into next year, he also needs to be the father Dick thinks he can be. 

He clenches his itching fists and releases them.

He turns towards Red Hood, towards Jason, towards his second eldest son, and allows Bruce Wayne to show through the cowl just a little.

“C’mon, lad,” B says, “let’s call it a night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooopefully that lived up to expectations. If that felt like a filler then yeah it sort of was. I really just wanted to have a scene with Selina and the rest was me trying to reset the direction of the fic. Pretty much, well, the bad guys of this fic WAS going to be the Court of Owls. And then in Nighting Annual 2 that's what it was revealed to be and well, I got excited because I called it. I didn't want to write an angry fic when I was somewhat enjoying the direction comics were going in, but well, I was blinded to the whole of comics. When I started this fic, I was behind on RHATO, haven't read Teen Titans, only read most of Young Justice, and was waaay behind on Batman. I was sort of just rage writing Ric out of existence without much context, and then I decided to get context when I saw some angry posts on Tumblr about DC's mistreatment of Damian. I got caught up on Young Justice, Rhato, and the three most current arcs of Batman and decided I'm not even going to bother with Teen Titans at the moment. 
> 
> And then all this crap with Punchline and Joker is starting to come out and I'm gonna say it. I don't like Punchline. Like, I'm happy Dc is finally trying to make a new bad guy but well. I'm. So. Fucking. Tired. Of. Joker. Should have let him die in Death of the Family and then keep him dead in my opinion! 
> 
> So then I lost... motivation to write a fic with the same villains of Canon, because all of a sudden the COO was just as overused as a Joker arc. So then, I though I'd keep it somewhat the same and have KG Beast take Dick out, but then because I was curious and I read the most recent TT issue with Damian disregarding everything Dick ever taught him to go and kill KG I decided fuck that as well. I'm in the process of coming up with a different villain, or who knows, this might be a fic focusing entirely on Dick's healing process for awhile.
> 
> I pretty much wrote this because someone I look up to mentioned it to me on tumblr and I remembered it's been a hell of a long time since I've updated, and so I reread my past three chapters, looked that my last update was almost a year ago, and just. barfed out this chapter.
> 
> I can't promise a quick next update, but hopefully you guys enjoyed this!
> 
> Thanks for reading guys, I'd love to hear your guy's thoughts on the chapter and ya know what? If you have ideas villain wise or just batfam bonding wise for this fic, I'm happy to hear them! Again, thanks for reading. Till next time!


	5. From the bottom of the pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hood to cave," he says, "big birds awake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the story can finally begin.
> 
> No particular warnings that haven’t been listed in the tags. 
> 
> There’s finally some perspective changes in this one! I wanted to hit everyone, but it started to get really long and I really wanted this to be the last chapter with Dick in a coma, so things had to be shortened and cut. Regardless, here’s the next chapter! This one was fun to write.

"My name…"

If asked, Bruce wouldn't be able to tell you where he got the idea, nor why he decided to act upon that idea in the first place. 

"My name is…"

Maybe it was a seed planted in him from the constant celebrity gossip he was susceptible to at a young age. Famous actors at every gala, singers who swear up and down they don't lip sync. They just practice often. They practice until they get it perfect, staring at their reflections until it's just how they want it. 

"My name is Bruce… this is stupid."

Or maybe it came from the story of how Thomas Wayne proposed to one Martha Kane. How he repeated the words he'll say to her months before hand, over and over and over, until the words that came out were neat and smooth and perfect. Until he didn't pull at his collar or shift his feet nervously.

"… My name is Bruce Wayne… and m-my…"

Or maybe it was something Bruce came up with on his own. Something that came from nowhere as he stood in front of the mirror, ten years old and toothpaste dripping down the corner of his lips, dreading another day at school, another day to smile and be happy when all he wants to do is throw the most expensive clay pot they own out the attic window. 

"My name is Bruce Wayne. My name is Bruce Wayne and my parents are d-dead."

It felt good. It felt solid. It felt real. It hurt too. 

"My name is Bruce Wayne and my parents were _ murdered _."

That felt even better. It was almost like he was holding his own heart in his hands, and every word he said out loud became solid truth that wrapped around the broken organ like a strong bandage, becoming iron the moment it touched flesh. 

"They were murdered right in front of me. I watched it happen. And the cops… the cops aren't doing anything. They're trying to cover it up. Push the blame onto somebody they want out of the way instead of the real nobody who did it. The only one who wants to help me is one man. Detective Gordon. But it's going… it's taking too long."

Real. It was real now. No longer a nightmare. No longer a scene played out in his mind over and over and over. Bruce doesn't know when _ exactly _ Batman became an idea in his head, but he could easily credit it to that moment. 

"It's taking too long…"

After that, it became a mantra. Something he found himself doing whenever life became a little too… too _ much _. 

"My name is Bruce Wayne."

After his first gunshot wound.

"And I've been shot. I can't help but wonder… if my parents died before they could feel this pain. I hope they did. No one should feel this pain. The echo of the bullet won't go away."

After his first encounter with Joker. 

"And I'm now responsible for a mad man. His identity is unknown, but without a doubt, it's my fault that he fell in that tub of acid. I should have been faster. _ Better _."

After the first person he couldn't save. 

"And I went to the funeral yesterday. They put her in a high collared dress to hide the hole in her chest. I wasn't quick enough."

It kept going. Going and going where he didn't need to think about it. He'd wake up in the morning, all bruised and bloodied, his heart pumping in his chest and brain all dizzy. He'd blink and be at the mirror with red rimmed eyes and a tight throat and nightmares swimming through his subconscious. 

"My name is Bruce Wayne, and last night I watched a pair of trapeze artists fall to their deaths… no, I watched a young boy watch his parents fall to their deaths. The ropes were tampered with. The boy told me so after I put my jacket on his shaking shoulders. He had the most blue eyes I've ever seen. I couldn't tell if they were shining like that because of his tears or if they're normally like that... Dick. His name is Dick. I… I want to help him."

It became a validation. An anchor. He did it whenever the sorrow became too much. Too heavy. So sharp it tore cracks in his ribcage. He did it whenever he spent the day before waiting at a bedside. He did it whenever a child that belonged in his care _ died _. He did it after every major argument. After every disaster. After every crisis. 

He did it because if he didn't, it would sit in his thoughts and ferment. The rancid stench invading every other thought he had and tainting them. 

This is why, after patrol last night when he and Jason parted ways and Bruce shuffled into the cave to see Tim with half-lidded eyes at the computer, he was already planning out what he'll say in the quiet hours of morning when it's only him, the mirror, and his failures. He shook Tim's shoulder until the young man was awake enough to allow Bruce to drag him back upstairs to his room. He checked his phone for messages from Cass and others while he made his way towards Damian's room, poking his head in and ignoring the way that muscle above the belly button clenched in a strange way when he saw the young teen clutching that book to his chest along with a stuffed animal that was normally found in Dick's room. 

He wondered briefly if the hospital would allow him to bring Zitka to Dick. He wondered briefly if the frayed, patchworked elephant would really do more help in the arms of the child sleeping than the child in a coma. He turned away, walking past Duke's room because the light was on underneath and the young man was talking with someone over the phone. Perhaps one of his _ We Are Robin _ friends. Maybe Cass. Alfred found him before he made his way into his room, offering tea, but Bruce turned him down. He needed to sleep. It's been a long time since he'd been this tired. 

He retired to bed, the sounds of gunshots and pearl beads bouncing and good natured bantering of _ napkin man _ battled in his brain until exhaustion took the wheel. He woke up a few hours later, very much aware of the bags under his eyes and the headache behind his temple. 

He checked his phone for messages. One from Cassandra announcing that she'll be home by night time tonight. One from Clark offering to help if Bruce needed him. A few from others, but Bruce clicked off his phone before he could be overwhelmed too much by them. 

He rubbed his chin, sighed, then stood up to walk to the bathroom. He took off his clothes and let them fall to the tile. With a few practiced movements, the shower was soon humming with life and Bruce was leaning naked over the counter, his fingers curling over the edge of the granite finish. 

He took a deep breath, looked towards the mirror who's edges were already beginning to blur…

Then he speaks. 

"My name is Bruce Wayne, and my eldest was shot in the head. The hospital saved his life, but he's in a coma now."

He takes a deep breath. It stumbles in the middle. His eyes burn. 

"They don't know when he'll wake up. I don't know who shot him. All I know is that I have to keep going. I have to keep strong. I have to keep this family from crashing. Dick was always the cornerstone… even when he shouldn't never have had to be. I have to make sure things are the same as he left it. I will never forgive myself if he wakes up to see everything he worked so hard for turned to dust.

"I will never allow that to happen. When he wakes up, he will see his family. He _ will _. No matter how hard the recovery. No matter how long it takes for him to wake. No. Matter. What.

"I won't allow this family to fall the moment I'm without him."

The mirror fogs completely over now and Bruce closes his eyes. He's not sure if the wetness on his cheeks is from the steam of the shower or if it's…

It's steam. It has to be. He climbs into the shower and begins the second day following Dick's shooting. 

-o-o-o-o-

Tim doesn't like hospitals. Especially the waiting rooms within them. They're too quiet. Too reverent. It gives you too much time to think. And Tim—he _ likes _ thinking. He's constantly thinking. He uses every opportunity he has to _ think _. Whether it's in the silent hours after midnight, or the split second between punches. 

But right now, Tim would really love to shut his brain off. 

For a waiting room with a "Talk quietly and be respectful" sign, everything just seems too loud and too in his face. No one is talking except for whispered voices of nurses at their desks. The deep rumble of Bruce as he talks with Dick's surgeon. Besides Tim, Damian is holding that book he hasn't let go of since Tim saw him this morning with white knuckles. Duke is on his phone, typing away at something Tim won't eavesdrop on. There's other people in the room, people with red eyes and black bags underneath to match. They're sniffling and taking in whispers into phones or turning the page of some random magazine they're not actually paying attention to. No one interacts with someone they don't know, but they seek comfort amongst themselves with hand holds and rustling clothes. 

Waiting room respect. 

It's loud. No one is talking. But the silence is screaming. 

And Tim can't turn his brain off. 

Not that he'd really would want to… Tim doesn't know if Bruce can handle _ two _ braindead members of the family. 

That's a joke. 

A bad joke. But a joke nonetheless. Besides, Dick's not braindead. He's not in the worst coma there ever was and, according to the doctors, he twitched his fingers a bit last night. Which is _ good _. Dick isn't braindead, but he is currently in the middle of a CT Scan. That's what Bruce is talking to Doctor Sanchez about. The CT Scan and why they're using it and how they're going to use it to better understand Dick's TBI and help him recover. She's also going over the risks, while few in number, associated with the non-invasive procedure. 

Tim doesn't need to hear her words to know what she's saying. Because he's already thinking about them. Because his brain won't shut up. 

There's a risk with the radiation of the machine used to take the pictures. Could cause cancer. The risk is low, but it's still there. Tim tries to think about how literally anything could cause cancer and that a warning on anything that says "Hey! I could cause your cells to fuck up and reproduce wrong and kill you slowly and painfully!" should be taken with a grain of salt or with more faith that it won't happen regardless, but there's such a more… real threat when the warning comes from the mouth of a Surgeon who specializes in TBI's compared to a Facebook post claiming a phone stuffed into your bra can cause breast cancer. It doesn't, by the way, but there's a reason people believed it so easily. 

Then there's the contrast dye. A mixture of chemicals they shoot into your body to better highlight the innards they're looking for in the x-rays. It could cause a warm feeling, metallic after taste, the feeling of bloating, or an allergic reaction. Dick's not allergic to iodine to the best of Tim's knowledge but _ still _. His brain won't shut up. 

Finally, Bruce ends his conversation with Doctor Sanchez, bringing a clipboard with a metric ton of blank spaces on the metric ton of paper attached to it. Probably for things like insurance and known allergies and past injuries. Tim wonders how honest Bruce will be on the past injuries one. 

But then Tim notices that there are, in fact, two packets stacked under the metal clasp. The one on top says "Richard John Grayson" where the patient's name should be, and when Bruce eventually works his way to the second packet, there's a simple "NW". Now Tim doesn't wonder how honest Bruce will be. Tim now just wonders how many doctors and nurses walking these halls know about Gotham's best kept secret. 

Welcome to the club, doctors and nurses. Hopefully super villains don't eventually end up targeting you all for the cursed knowledge which is the secret identities of Batman and his army of bird themed sidekicks. 

"_ Partners _," Dick's voice echos softly inside his stupid brain that won't shut up. 

Eventually, both packets are filled, and Tim busies himself with inconspicuously looking over Bruce's shoulder to where the man is researching brain specialists on his phone. Gotham Hospital has plenty of expertly trained medical workers, but Bruce is the type of man who will search the four corners of the world for the best of the best. 

His thumbs swipe through name after name, degree after degree, award after award, until his thumb stops and hovers over the profile page of one Isabella Haas, a blonde haired woman with a sharp gaze and serious lips. She's wearing a lab coat over a comfy looking sweater, and hanging around her neck is a beautiful necklace with a crystal hanging near her breast bone. Bruce's thumb overs over her contact information for a moment, but then Doctor Sanchez returns to the waiting room, saying Dick is ready for visitors now.

Bruce turns off his phone, handing the clipboard to the doctor while Damian stands up immediately. Duke takes a second later, shoving his phone into his hoodie pocket and shifting on the balls of his feet nervously. Tim stands up last, his hands feeling shaky and clammy. 

They go to Dick's room just as a nurse is leaving it with a polite smile. She goes mostly ignored though, because Dick is easy to spot within the mess of bedsheets and bandages.

Tim thought he knew what to expect. He's been through this before. His dad was in this position once upon a time before he died. For months even. And yeah, Tim didn't visit him nearly that often, he still knew what to expect when walking into a room to see a totally dead-to-the-world loved one, sleeping lifelessly for an unforeseen amount of time. 

He doesn't know if it's the shaved head or the fact that, as horrible as it sounds, Tim is closer with Dick than what he was with his own dad, but for some reason, this hurts so much worse. It hits in a whole new way that almost has him stumbling back. 

There's wires and sensors everywhere, some visible on his wrists and head, others sneaking out from under the thick, wool sheet that lays over his body. Tim swallows, a pit forming or perhaps just deepening within his stomach. 

A catheter. Dick needs a catheter. He needs tubes entering his nostrils. He needs a needle taped to the inside of his wrist. He needs bandages around his bald head and he needs compression socks on his feet. 

And he needs a catheter. Dick Grayson. The first Robin. Nightwing. Former Batman. The man close to every hero in the universe knows, the man close to every villain in the universe has been beaten by. A man that's always smiling and joking and jumping and talking passionately about being his own person and doing things he wants to do and encouraging others to do the same is on a fucking _ catheter _. 

He's in a coma. He can't eat on his own, he can't move on his own, he can't even fucking urinate on his own. 

It's a miracle that he's breathing on his own. 

Silver linings. Small mercies. #Blessed.

Shut up brain. 

Bruce makes a beeline to the chair near Dick's head and Damian is quick to follow after, opening the book in his hands with a softness Tim doesn't see often on him. God, it's always so shocking to see how much Damian cares for Dick. Yes, he and Damian have been on better terms lately. Way better terms. It's not like Damian had apologized to Tim for trying to murder him, and Tim hasn't exactly apologised for the contengency plans and insults, but there's a mutual understanding between them that has them being civil with each other even when they're alone together with no one to pretend play nice for. Anyway, even if he and the gremlin—which Tim says with all the love now—are civil with each other now, it's nowhere close to the softness Damian adopts when he's with Dick. Damian doesn't act this open and caring around anyone else, including his own _ blood father. _

"Make yourselves comfortable," Bruce says, motioning to the other sofa chairs around the room as he sits down. He pulls out his phone as he does so, the screen flashing on to show that one traumatic brain injury specialist he was looking at earlier. "Talk to him if you want. We'll be here for a few hours."

Which is fine with Tim. But also not fine. While he wants nothing more than to watch Dick breathing and have that visual proof that he's still at least _ alive _, he doesn't exactly know what to do when located at the bedside of an unconscious family member located in the ICU. He should have brought his laptop. 

"Hey, Big D," Duke says, awkwardly. But he's trying. Making the first move. Breaking the tension. "Hope you don't mind us barging in like this. We're just here to keep you company for a little bit."

"He can't talk back," Damian says sharply the moment Duke finishes and Tim snorts. 

At the sound of Tim's amusement, Damian turns his jungle green eyes onto him like his gaze has been replaced with long, pointy, knives. Tim smirks. "He knows, gremlin."

"Tt," Damian huffs, which is way more civil than what he could have said. Tim supposes it's because even though Dick can't talk back, there's still the chance he could be listening, and if Dick heard them arguing and could talk back to them: he'd tell them to knock if off. 

And just like that, everyone quiets, conversation suddenly feeling a little too much. Tim takes the chair closest to the window and looks outside instead of staring at Dick. Images of Jack Drake filter in his mind as Duke sits down beside him, asking Bruce questions about the CT Scan and when they think Dick will wake up. Tim hates this. He hates the uncertainty and the unsaid apprehension. 

Tim's almost thankful for the moment Damian finally announces that he will now read Dick's favorite book to him so everyone must cease and desist chatter. Tim didn't know Dick _had_ a favorite book, let alone that it was the _Tale of Despereaux_, but regardless of that, he's finally able to close his eyes and breathe. Think about something other than the _what_ _can go wrong's_ and the _where to go from here's_. 

He's never read the _Tale of Despereaux_ before, and he's definitely coming in late into the story, but it's a helpful distraction. 

Damian's in the middle of describing the scene of Despereaux being sent to the dungeons—what did the small mouse with a French fainting mother even _ do _ to warrant death-by-rats anyway?—when the phone in his pocket vibrates. He opens his eyes and clicks on the home button. He smiles when he sees the contact photo belonging to the person that's messaged him. 

Kon.

_ <how you holding up _

🙃🐁🧵>

<_ valid. but also wtf does that mean _

_ idk> _

He pauses, Damian's voice becoming a drone, then decides he should maybe be honest with his boyfriend. He lets his fingers hover over the keys for a second. Kon's there for him and Tim trusts him with… with _ everything _. 

If there's one person in this world that he can tell every single thought in his head to without fear of backlash or judgment, it's Connor Kent. 

He gets typing, and the more he does so, the better he slowly begins to feel. 

-o-o-o-o-

"The dungeon, reader, stank. It stank of despair and suffering and hopelessness. Which is to say that the dungeon smelled of rats. 

"And it was-"

There's a knock on the door to Richard's hospital room. Everyone looks up from what they've been doing, but it's Damian's father who calls out. 

"Come in."

The door opens and an unfamiliar face pokes his head in with a kind smile. They're wearing scrubs and father doesn't immediately kick him out, so Damian let's himself relax slightly even though he hadn't noticed he had tensed up in the first place. The nurse begins to explain that it's time for them to do a check up on Richard's condition and change bandages, and they'll need a little room to work. 

Damian's eyes wander over to Richard as the nurse says that father is welcome to stay, but everyone else will need to leave for the next little while. 

Damian doesn't like this. None of this makes sense. Richard, laying here, looking like a completely different person thanks to the missing hair and the pale color to his skin. Thanks to the stillness that up until yesterday was impossible to imagine on the man. 

Damian looks away, repeating in his mind what father had told him. That Richard could be aware of their surroundings and that he's not as dead as he looks. 

Richard isn't dead. Damian knows what a dead Richard looks like. 

It looks like a gravestone next to his blood parents and a shrine in the cave. 

A hand falls on his shoulder and he startles up to see Timothy standing above him, a slight upwards tug to his lips that almost looks incredibly sad. "C'mon," he says, "there's a mall a few blocks away, we can browse around until they're done, yeah?"

Damian places a bookmark between the pages of the book and slowly finds himself nodding. 

The nurse smiles at them while they leave. Father tosses the keys to Duke, giving a hard look at Damian as if already saying _ no _ to the question Damian wasn't actually planning on asking this time. Damian may know how to drive, but he honestly doesn't… feel like it right now. 

Walking out of Richard's room is no easier than what it was yesterday. But it's not any harder either. Timothy thanks the receptionists and Duke presses his hand against the hand sanitizer nailed against the wall before they exit through the locked double doors. The code "6529" will be used to get back in once they're done wasting time at the mall. 

It's... Reverently silent until they reach the parking lot of the hospital. Duke jumps into the driver's seat even though Timothy's older. Timothy doesn't complain though. He just gets into the passenger seat and passes the AUX cord to Damian. Which... is a strange gesture. Whatever the case, he connects it to his phone and goes to his music app.

He hesitates on his choices for a moment. None of his playlists… feel right. 

He goes to the search bar, biting the inside of his cheek as Duke slowly begins to back out of the parking spot, then types in the name of a band he doesn't often willingly listen to. 

_Walking the Wire_ from _Imagine Dragons_ is the first song to play. Damian let's it. Richard loves this band. Damian can't imagine why. 

"Hey gremlin," Tim's voice suddenly pipes up as they approach the end of the parking lot. 

"Yes?" 

"You ever considered going into drama?"

Damian goes quiet as Duke speaks up. "I was thinkin' the same thing. You're good at reading out loud. Did voices and everything."

Warmth blooms in Damian's chest and he fights both a smile and tears. He swallows thickly. "… thank you. And yes, I have considered a… theater class."

"Yeah?" Timothy asks, turning around in his chair to look back at Damian. Damian licks his lips and looks away nervously. He hasn't told anyone. Not even… not even Richard yet. He got interested in the class when Jason told him about his own experience in said class about a month ago. Damian hasn't asked yet, but it intrigued him to the point he might switch out the intermediate choir elective he took with it. 

"Yes..." 

He had wanted to tell Richard about it. Ask his opinion. But he can't now. And eighth grade is approaching. He has to make his decision sooner or later. Timothy looks genuinely curious. Duke said he's good at reading out loud and doing the voices.

Maybe… maybe he can tell them. He swallows. 

"It's called muscle theater. I think I might take it."

"Oh hell yeah, little man," Duke says, and Damian's almost shocked at the kindness and excitement in his tone. "I bet you'll do great."

"I think you'll be the best in the class," Timothy agrees, "I never took it myself but it sounds super fun."

Damian swallows again. Rubs his eye on his sleeve. He looks down at the book in his hands and tries not to think about how it should be Richard telling him these things. 

"… Thank you."

-o-o-o-o-

Anything that happened at the mall could not be called noteworthy. It was really just walking around the mall, stopping for a small scoop of Cold Stone ice cream, and then heading back when Tim got a text from Bruce. By the time they made it back to the hospital, it was nearing the evening and they only had a few more hours to spend visiting before the hospital kicked them out. 

There's not much you can do while visiting a comatose patient. You can talk with them, sure, but that's sort of awkward to do when there's other people in the room. 

And besides, it's not really like Duke… knows Dick Grayson enough to have full length conversations with him even if he was awake. Duke doesn't have the same connection with the first Robin that the others have. Sure, Dick is a nice enough guy and welcomed Duke into the family with open arms and a wide smile, but there's no history between the two. As horrible as it sounds, Duke almost feels like he's intruding on the intimacy everyone in this room has with the man that he doesn't have himself. 

Which is why he's rather relieved when Bruce announces that it's time to go. For the first time all day, Duke feels like he can breathe the moment they pile into Bruce's car and drive back towards Bristol. 

When they reach the manor, things feel way too quiet. Calm. Domestic. Alfred offers a plate of cucumber sandwiches, everyone takes one, and then goes their separate ways. Duke doesn't ask what everyone's doing, but soon it's just him sitting in the kitchen, trying to figure out what needs to be done next. 

He doesn't know what to do next. 

Which sucks. Duke's so used to relying on his meta abilities, watching the light particles and planning two or three steps ahead before he acts. It's so much easier to make moves when you know where they're going to go before hand.

You can't do that in situations like this. You can't look at a man in a hospital gown, seemingly permanently asleep, and predict the exact second they'll wake up. There's no light to watch there. It's all dark. Covered in shadow that Duke doesn't know how to move. 

Shadow. 

He sighs and touches the shadow of his hand on the kitchen table with his other hand. The shadow flickers and oozes ever so slightly, as if it's trying to enter his fingertips. He frowns. 

He's just barely managing to understand his meta abilities. And now he has extra abilities to worry about and learn thanks to Ra's Al Ghul and his brainwashed assassin lackies. He really hopes these ones don't corrupt his mind or something. 

A hand suddenly falls on his shoulder and he startles, the shadow of his hand leaving his influence and returning to the shape it should be. Duke turns and looks behind him, fighting a balk as none other than Bruce Wayne stands behind him with a frown that reaches the muscles in his chin. Bruce doesn't like Duke's new powers. Or well, he doesn't like where Duke got these new powers. He doesn't want Duke messing with them unsupervised. 

Busted. 

Duke clenches his fists and awaits the coming scolding, but the frown on Bruce's face softens ever so slightly. A sigh accompanies a falling of tense shoulders. 

"Do you want to come with me to the airport?"

Huh. Okay. Scolding put on hold for now. 

Duke smiles at the question, the slight rebellion via shadow manipulation shoved to the back burner at the thought of Cassie. She should be arriving soon. She texted him pictures of an airport in France this morning. Of course she's close to home now.

"Sure!" Duke answers, standing up. "Let me grab my shoes."

They get into one of Bruce's more discreet cars so they won't be mobbed at the airport. Bruce turns on the engine and Duke makes himself comfortable in the passenger seat. He feels a little bad for being this excited to see Cass again, especially when you consider the reason she's coming home. But he and Cass? They've hit it off. She's probably the closest in the family to what he can confidently call a sibling without feeling nervous about it.

Bruce pulls out of the manor and onto the freeway heading towards the airport. Thank God the airport Cass is landing at is outside the city on the other side of Gotham River. It's nearing rush hour, and Duke is pretty confident rush hour is the reason half the city has road rage and tendencies to turn to heinous acts of villainy. 

"How…" Bruce suddenly says, pulling Duke out of his thoughts back into the present. Duke looks away from the window which is currently showing the skyline of Gotham pass by peacefully and lifts an eyebrow. "How are you, Duke?" 

And the peacefulness is gone. Awkwardness has come into the building in high heels and a glittering pink bikini. Without thinking about it, Duke lifts his hand to the back of his neck and releases an uneasy chuckle. "Um. I'm good. You?"

Bruce grunts. "Fine."

"Good..."

Maybe Duke should have stayed home. Bruce is trying so hard to be put together and fatherly when all Duke can think about is how, yesterday, Duke watched as he fell apart in his own bedroom. 

Duke swallows and runs his fingers through the hairline at the base of his neck. He almost thinks that this weird attempt at conversation has effectively died before it began, but then Bruce opens his mouth again. 

"You know… you can talk to me, right?" He says, and Duke has to keep his eyebrows from rising. "I may not understand everything, but I will try."

Duke swallows. Nods his head. "Uh. Yeah, yeah sure."

Bruce nods as well. "Good."

Finally, silence falls, and Duke lets out a breath. 

He wonders how long this will last. How long Bruce will pretend he's all put together. How long this strange, family-banding-togetherness will last before people get bored of waiting for Dick to wake up and go back to their separate ways. When will Tim go back to his Young Justice friends? When will Damian decide to find something better to do? When will Jason disappear off the face of the earth on his next rebellious mission? 

When will Cass leave back to whatever mission she's on? 

When will Bruce quit being all soft and open and return to his cold, calculative exterior that everyone knows and is familiar with?

When will Dick laying asleep in the hospital become a new normal? When will visiting him become no more strange or out of place than going to school or on another patrol? It didn't take long for visits to Duke's permanently jokerized parents in the mental hospital they were placed in to become normal. 

When they reach the exit leading towards the airport, Duke shoves these thoughts out of his mind and follows Bruce to the hanger Cass is set to arrive at. They wait along with various other strangers, each waiting for someone they care about to arrive home or arrive to visit. 

Thankfully, it doesn't take long. Duke catches sight of her first, dragging a single pink duffle bag along behind her with a smile on her lips. She's wearing a t-shirt with Chinese characters printed on it along with a frilly shirt combined with high knit socks. She's wearing converse to match this strange outfit. 

Duke loves her lack of style. She's told him she loves it too. 

He rushes forward and she eagerly meets him in a strong embrace. When they part, she grins brightly and squeezes his shoulders. 

"Hey sis," Duke says.

"Hey bro," she replies. 

Bruce clears his throat from behind and Cass exits the hug with a hop in her step. Duke can't help but notice her smile waver a little while approaching Bruce, perhaps noticing something that no one else can. He takes a few steps back to allow privacy as she launches herself forward and wraps her arms around Bruce's neck. Bruce stands stiffly for a few minutes until he closes his eyes and gathers her closer like he's been waiting for this hug all day.

"I'm here now," she says, "it will be alright."

And Duke believes her, because she's always right.

Judging by the way the tension between Bruce’s brow relaxes ever so slightly, he believes her too.

-o-o-o-o-

The hospital is quiet when Jason sneaks in. Which, of course it is. It's close to one in the morning. The hospital is usually quiet when it's this deep into night. That is, unless, there's a major Gotham Rouge attack, but as if this moment, no horribly dressed baddy is making any noise. 

No, the only noise here is Dick's steady breathing, the beeping of his machines, and the hiss of Jason's helmet as he reaches for the clasp to let the air hit his bare skin. Sans domino mask, of course.

Looking at Dick in the hospital bed is a trip and a half. He whistles lowly at the image before him. "Jesus, Goldy, really fluffed up this time, haven't you?"

Dick doesn't respond and Jason sighs, sinking into the chair pulled against the wall. 

He doesn't know why he's come and he doesn't think he'll stay for long. He thinks he just... wanted to see with his own two eyes that "Dick" and "coma" really are two words that go together now. 

And yup. It's true. He's right here, not moving, not reacting. Just breathing and keeping his eyes stubbornly closed. 

It's official. Dick and coma is the hottest new couple since peanut butter and jelly. 

Jason slaps his thighs, frowning at how _ nothing _ everything is in this room. He stands up, hating how wrong this feels. 

"You better wake up soon," Jason says quietly. "Everything you worked for will fall apart if you keep slacking off like this."

Which is Jason's way of saying he misses Dick, as annoying as he normally is. Not that he'll admit it. Even while the only person in the room is mentally dead to the world. 

He sighs again, deciding he should go before he starts saying mushy things that will ruin his self perceived reputation. 

He just wanted to see. That's all. 

He's halfway out the window when something finally changes. 

A pain-filled grunt from behind. 

Jason tenses, swinging his head around to watch with wide eyes behind his domino mask as Dick _ moves _. His eyebrows scrunching. His lips turning down into a sharp frown. His arms twitching. 

Holy shit.

He's actually waking up. 

Jason rushes back to Dick's bedside, hovering his fingers above the railing and searching for… for he doesn't know what. What he does know is that Dick's eyes are blinking open slowly now, pupils blown wide. A whimper escapes the older man's mouth and Jason realizes he must be in _ agony _. 

He knows what he's searching for now. He finds the call button and slams it down, quickly backing up to the window and hopping over the ledge just as Dick's door slams open, allowing a group of doctors and nurses to rush in with worried and confused faces that turn to business and determination the moment their eyes land on Dick. 

As they start to try and talk to Dick and give directions amongst themselves, Jason lowers himself down to the outside ground, just barely managing to not land in a bush. 

With shaking hands, Jason reaches to his comm before he can change his mind. 

"Hood to cave," he says, "big birds awake."

He lets his arm fall as he looks back up to Dick's window. 

A smidge of hope fills his chest as he thinks that things can finally go back to normal. 

It's been a long ass three days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve come up with a villain for this story, and honestly I’m already super excited to try my hand at said villain. Don’t worry though, this fic will focus primarily on Dick and his recovery, but this particular bad guy I feel will add a ton of seasoning, better than that joker, bane, and court of owls stuff dc has been force feeding us for the past three years. And ill give you guys a hint. He’s not a normal rogue villain and he has never been a Nightwing villain either. So that knocks off all the obvious villains like Deathstroke or whatever. You guys are welcome to guess in the comments! He won’t show up for a little while.
> 
> Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed that! This is honestly my first ever fic that focuses so deeply into recovery. I normally write the whump and leave it there... but every time a new Batfam rebirth comic comes out I’m filled with so much rage because I’m tired of this angst and brooding and tense relationships.
> 
> I hope i wrote Duke’s perspective well enough. I’ve finally read Batman and the Outsiders as well as Batman and the Signal. So now i have a little more to work with on him. And let me tell ya, the sibling ship between Duke and Cass is to die for in that series. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please be sure to leave kudos, bookmarks, and comments. All the good stuff. I really value your guy’s responses to the fic. Every kind thing you all say fills me with so much motivation to write the next chapter.
> 
> Kay, I’m going now. Till next time!


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